


Bear Down

by Hoshigatta



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexuality, F/F, Feelings, Gen, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Patriarchy, RPF, Repressed Sexual Trauma, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, queerness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:11:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoshigatta/pseuds/Hoshigatta
Summary: Seth Rollins puts his life back together.(Re-upload, with new updates, after I took this down for about a year and a half.)





	1. I'm just a problem that doesn't wanna be solved

**Author's Note:**

> I took this down for a long time. I'm putting it back up, and I'm gonna try to finish it. Please read the trigger warnings, which I will post at the start of relevant chapters. 
> 
> This starts immediately after the RAW episode on 02/05/15, when Seth's nude photos were leaked on the internet. This is therefore, before Mania 31- I started writing it before Mania 31 had aired, so it diverges from the canon in the product around March of 2015. 
> 
> Also- leaking someone's nudes without their permission is sexual assault, and it feels important to say that, given how many nude photo leaks there have been recently. 
> 
> There is Non-Con in this fic, but there is no Non-Con between any of the characters listed in the pairings. 
> 
> Thanks to MFK and Ego who have been there from the beginning, and to the others who have cheer-lead this thing. You guys know who you are. 
> 
> Chapter title is from Fall Out Boy, of course.

As soon as his segment is over, Seth rushes back to the locker room to grab his shit as fast as he can. He keeps his head down, and doesn't speak to anyone. He's afraid that if he does that he's going to punch someone.  
His phone, when he gets to it, is blowing up-  he has seventeen voicemails that weren't there two hours ago when this mess started, 180 text messages, and so many new twitter messages that it has actually crashed his twitter app.  
He skims his texts. His mom. Jimmy. Marek. Jericho, which he deletes without reading. Kaitlyn. Still nothing from Leighla. Or Zahra.  
"Baby, I'm so sorry" he types out. He stops when he realizes that he doesn't know who he should send it to. He texts a generic public apology to his twitter feed instead.  
He's showered and changed and his stuff is packed in his bags but he feels like he's still in the ring, waiting to get hit. He grabs the Money in the Bank Briefcase, grabs his suitcase, throws on a pair of sunglasses even though it's eleven at night, and makes a beeline for the talent-only parking lot.  
His hands shake as he tries to hail an Uber with his phone. He's halfway through putting in his hotel address in as the destination when a text pops up. From Ambrose.  
Ambrose hates texting as a rule and almost never does it. Seth swipes down.  
  
_DEAN AMBROSE: where r you?_  
_still in the locker room?_  
  
He doesn't know why he does it, but he texts back.  
"Outside." he writes, "Trying to order a car."  
Fifteen seconds later his phone buzzes again. He stares at it, dumbly.  
  
_Loading dock or parking lot?_  
  
"Parking lot." he texts back, feeling impatient and exasperated "Why?"  
He doesn't get the chance to text back before a black Audi with tinted windows pulls up.  
The back door opens, and Dean Ambrose sticks his head out.  
"Get in, loser. We're going shopping."  
"The fuck?" Seth says. He's still hot with rage and embarrassment but there’s something about Ambrose’s “get in the fucking car” expression that sends a weird twinge of relief through the center of his chest. The trunk pops open, and Seth throws his bags in the back.  
"Shut the door and lock it,” Ambrose says, sliding over to make room for Seth. “We're waiting for Roman. He's not gonna be here for another fifteen minutes."  
“Washing his hair?” Seth asks, totally serious.  
“Yup."  
"Shopping?" Seth asks, because he is really not in the fucking mood for this shit, and the only thing that could make this day any more surreal is whatever the fuck Dean Ambrose has planned.  
Ambrose rolls his eyes.  
"Seth, you really need to watch a fuckin' movie once in awhile, you can't live at the gym. Yes, shopping, if by shopping you mean hitting the liquor store."  
Pity party, party of three.  
"Look man," Seth says, straining for the diplomatic approach, "I appreciate this. Really. But you guys can't fix this."  
"You're a thousand percent right about that,” Ambrose pauses, as if rolling the next thing he wants to say around in his mouth for a moment before he adds, “Instead we're gonna get you pretty drunk."  
“You don’t need to do that,” Seth says as levelly as he can manage over his desperate desire to be anywhere else.  
“Sure we do.” Ambrose says coolly, like Seth doesn’t have a choice.  
“Ambrose,” Seth says, raising his voice, “This is none of your business.” Fuck. His hands are shaking a little.  
“Seth, Hunter called for the car when you were at Gorilla before the semi-main,” Ambrose says. There’s no expression on his face.  
“Did he say anything?”  
“Not really.” Ambrose says, with a shrug. Ambrose reaches into the compartment on the side of the door and passes Seth a bottle of water. It’s a cheap one from the vending machine at the arena. It’s cold, still dripping with condensation. Seth accepts it, downing it so fast that the flimsy plastic goes concave. Ambrose watches him carefully. It’s fucking February in fucking Ohio, and Seth's sweating through his clothes. He hasn't hit his adrenaline crash yet.  
 After what feels like an eternity of awkward silence,  Roman appears, looking much cooler than he has any right to considering he's sporting wet hair and a shiner. He spots the car, nods expectantly and walks around. Ambrose opens the other door for him, and then they're all squeezed together in the back of the tiny car with Ambrose sandwiched in the middle. "Hey man," Roman says genially to Seth as he crams himself in so he can shut the door. His eyes are warm and concerned as he gives Seth’s shoulder a supportive squeeze. Seth has always felt that Roman is quite possibly too nice to be an actual person. It was pretty okay to work for two years with someone who never wanted to start any shit, but that ease is Roman's biggest detriment in the ring. He’s too secure in himself to care about being cool, and he doesn't have a killer’s instinct or a giant chip on his shoulder to make up for it. It’s a little difficult to be around him right now, when Seth is trying not to have a slow nervous breakdown. At least when he’s alone with Ambrose, there’s no way Seth is any kind of contender for “the craziest person in this car".  
 "Hey," Seth says curtly, because his choices at this point are play along or start a fight with Ambrose, whose thigh is pressed against his. The least Hunter could have done was spring for a bigger fucking car.  
Ambrose gives directions to the driver from his Android (wtf, who even has one of those anymore) and the car takes off down the dark highway. They beat most of the traffic leaving the venue, thank nonexistent god.  
The trip to Liquor Mart is brief. Ambrose buys three bottles of Grey Goose, puts it on Triple H’s company credit card, signs for it, and leads them back out. It's below zero and Seth doesn't feel like digging through his bag to find his jacket. Roman pulls his hair up so that it doesn't freeze, but otherwise looks unruffled as they make their way across the street (though he is also, it must be said, not wearing a jacket.) Ambrose strides ahead of them, backpack slung over one shoulder, silently refusing to even pull up the hood of his sweatshirt. If this is a manliness contest, Seth thinks, we are all stupid fucks.  
The concierge at the front desk of the hotel has either the best poker face in the entire world, or is so desensitized to the insanity that is professional wrestling that she doesn’t bat an eye at the three of them. They collect their respective card keys and head straight up to Seth’s room. Where Seth would really like to be alone. By himself.  
“Man, I’m starving after that match. Pizza?” Roman asks, scrolling through seamless on his iphone. Ambrose nods.  
“Three of ‘em. Get all the toppings.” Ambrose has kicked off his shoes and is settling in on the edge of the bed, flipping through the channels with the remote.  
“Seth, wanna watch Roadhouse?”  
It’s at that moment that a google alert informs Seth that, according to Gawker, Leighla’s facebook status publically says that she’s single. A cursory glance at his own profile confirms that in fact, he’s been single since the start of the third hour of RAW. The wedding was supposed to be next June, right after Battleground. A couple of weeks ago she’d texted him that she’d gone to a vintage shop with her friends in Davenport and picked out her dress. He’ll never get to see her in it, because by the time he gets back to Iowa, she’ll probably have moved her stuff out of the house.  
He’s naked on the internet, and he’s not going to get married anymore, and the rest of the world knew an hour and a half before he did. He’s a liar, a cheater, and a selfish bastard, and all of his friends and family and coworkers know.  
Seth sits down on the edge of the bed. There’s a part of him that really wants to cry.  
“Sure,” he says, stuffing his phone back in his pocket, “Roadhouse sounds good.”  
Ambrose passes him one of the hotel coffee cups, filled to just below the rim with vodka.  
“Thanks.” Seth says. It burns on the way down.  
The hotel is not gonna be happy that they ordered pizza instead of room service, so Seth tips the bellboy in the lobby a ridiculous amount not to rat to them out to his manager.  
When he gets back up to the room, a busty woman with huge platinum blonde hair is trying to eyefuck Patrick Swayze while some stupid jerk makes a futile attempt to hit on her. Her dress has holes cut in the sides. It's supposed to be sexy, and it almost is, but the shape of the cutouts kind of makes it look like she's wearing someone's construction paper experiment.  
"What the hell is she wearing?" Roman asks over the rim of his cup as Seth passes him one of the pizza boxes. Roman's camped out on on the floor in front of the bed, leaning back against it.  
"Aw come on man, you're telling me Galina doesn't have a nice tight little dress like that?" Ambrose waggles his eyebrows suggestively.  
Roman's smirk is wide and smug. "I admit nothing."  
"You fuckin' stud! Does she wear it in public, or is it just for the two of you?" Ambrose gives Roman a particularly lecherous grin.  
Seth mentally adds "my ex fiancée's lingerie" to the list of things he does not want to think about ever again. Which fucking sucks, because she always had excellent taste.  
"I plead the fifth."  
"Booooo. Killjoy." Ambrose tosses a balled up paper napkin at him. Roman blocks it and glares at him in mock offense. Seth was there when Roman and Ambrose met back in FCW, and the ease between the two of them had been there right away. Seth's had just enough alcohol that he can admit to himself that it's always bothered him that he'll never be as close with either of them as they are with each other.  
"What about Renee?" Seth glances over at Ambrose, "I bet she's got some pretty sexy outfits." He's done his level best to be a good friend by never picturing them having sex, but right now he kinda wants the distraction.  
Ambrose goes totally still, like someone's flicked his internal off switch. Roman gives Seth an expression that clearly reads as "Dude, what the fuck".  
"I guess I didn't tell you," Ambrose says with blatantly false indifference, "We broke up." He takes a sip of his drink.  
Seth stares open mouthed for a second. Dean and Renee had been together for at least the past year, if Seth is remembering right. They were quiet about their relationship, and refused to answer press questions about it, but when you saw the two of them together it was pretty hard to miss.  
"When?"  
Ambrose shrugs. "December."  
Roman gives Ambrose a light punch of supportive bro-man-ship.  
"Shit dude," Seth says, "I'm sorry." He's never seen Ambrose light up like that for anyone else.  
Ambrose takes a bite of his pizza and shrugs.  
Roman is still giving Seth his patented "how are you this dense, Seth" look in between throwing supportive glances at Ambrose.  
"It's cool," Ambrose says, staring down at his newly emptied cup, "It just kinda sucks seeing her at work."  
"At least there's no pictures of your dick on the internet, man." Roman says. Ambrose actually grins just a little bit at that.  
"That's true. The misery of being dumped has its own sliding scale."  
He lays a warm hand on Seth's forearm in immediate apology. Ambrose always gets a little more tactile when he drinks.  
"Yeah, if we're having a contest, I definitely win." Seth says. He can do this. He can pretend to be fine. Ambrose is doing it. Ambrose gives him a reassuring shoulder bump. On screen, Patrick Swayze is fucking someone up.  
"Man, if they remade this movie today it would totally fucking suck," Seth says, refilling his cup.  
"Unless they got all of us wrasslers to star in it, yeah. Who else could do those stunts?"  
"Who would be Swayze?" Roman asks. He's already eaten four slices of pizza and shows no signs of stopping. He hits the gym roughly half as often as Seth and he still looks like that. It's not fair.  
"I think Ziggler is the obvious choice," Ambrose says. He's had twice as much booze as Seth but is definitely a little more sober.  
"Isn't the Swayze character supposed to be a brainiac though?" Seth leans back on the pillows, staring at the screen.  
"Yeah, that's true. Maybe Sandow?" Roman offers. Ambrose laughs. It's like it breathes the life back into him that vanished when Seth asked about Renee.  
"Good call, Ro. I bet Miz would be pissed."  
Seth sets his drink down on the nightstand and sits back against the pillows, basking in the warmth of the liquor and the familiar din of the conversation around him. Someone has turned the lights out by the time he finally surrenders to the black heaviness of sleep.  
Seth wakes up on his back near the edge of the bed, staring up at the gray popcorn ceiling of the hotel room. His mouth is dry and his head hurts.  
A cursory glance to the other side of the room reveals that Roman is sleeping stretched out in the armchair in the corner, arms folded over his chest, hair loose around his shoulders. Even in yesterday's clothes with his neck bent at a lax, awkward angle, he still looks like like a badly lit version of something off the cover of a romance novel.  
It's then that Seth registers that there's extra weight beside him on the bed, pinning the covers down. He remembers; Booze. Roadhouse. Ambrose. Empty vodka bottles. Getting dumped via Facebook during the third hour of RAW. Everybody being too drunk to go sleep in their own  
hotel rooms. The internet having pictures of his dick.  
Seth gets to his feet as deliberately as he can manage, peels off his shirt from yesterday, and goes to the bathroom to throw up.  
Throwing up is an accepted part of Seth's life as a Crossfit athlete. He's familiar with the burn in his body that follows, and the accompanying scramble to rehydrate and gain back the lost calories. He's never really thought of throwing up as cathartic before, but this morning there's something almost comforting about giving himself over to it- letting the pain in his gut and the angry bruises on his back and the pounding in his head take ownership of his body as he braces his forehead against the cold surface of the toilet bowl.  
He can't shake this hazy thought of something white and familiar blooming up through the pain in his stomach and his shoulders. Whatever is trying to surface through the alcohol and the hangover and the furious exhaustion, it is not a fresh wound. He doesn't need to throw up anymore, but he still feels nauseous.  
He's not sure how long he stays there, as still as possible, hand hanging limp on the silver flusher, existing from second to second.  
"How's it going?" Ambrose asks from the doorway, voice still husky with sleep. Seth really doesn't want to turn to look at him right now.  
"How the fuck does it look like it's going?" he snaps back. He's really mad at himself that he didn't lock or close the door.  
Ambrose slinks down to the tiled floor beside the bathtub. In the cheap yellow light he's a little too real, too harsh around the edges for Seth to deal with right now. His hair is even messier than usual and there's an excessive amount of stubble on his face. The slice of his collarbone that's peeking through the zipper of his black hoodie suggests that he wisely ditched his hideous tee shirt that Seth spilled some vodka on the night before.  
"Rough night?" Ambrose asks, leaning back against the edge of the bathtub.  
Seth wants to say "You were there, asshole", but his stomach growls loudly at him in protest and he reluctantly puts his head back down.  
"Fuck" he groans instead.  
"I'd say the vodka already fucked you pretty good."  
"Kill me."  
"That's not really my style." Seth can hear the little half smile in his voice. He's not really sure why that makes him feel worse, but somehow it does.  
"What are you still doing here?"  
"It's six in the morning," Ambrose says flatly, like that's a stupid question.  
"You can't even leave me to vomit in peace?"  
"I could." Ambrose says, but makes no move to do so. They sit there for several long moments, studying each other.  
"What do you want, Ambrose?" Seth says, finally. Ambrose meets his eyes, and there's something soft in his gaze that Seth doesn't recognize.  
Nobody ever stops talking about the frenetic energy that Ambrose brings to his matches with Seth. Seth is enough of a performer to see how the illusion works from the outside. Everyone can see that Ambrose has presence, that he can command your attention. The thing no one seems to understand about Ambrose unless they've been in the ring with him is how intuitive, how fucking generous he is. If Seth needs an opening, Ambrose will make him one. When Seth tosses him, Ambrose will take the landing and writhe into it, even when they're both so battered that it hurts to breathe. When Ambrose lands a blow, he pulls, and trusts Seth to work the crowd enough to make it look like a real and devastating hit. He will never carry Seth on his back but he will always give him opportunities to captivate, to shine. The most earnest, unguarded thing about him is his wrestling, and after almost five years, Seth still doesn't know where they stand outside of the familiar facade that is their professional lives.  
Right now, it seems that Dean Ambrose just needs something to do with his hands. He picks up the razor off the edge of the bathtub, and walks it across the back of his fingers, just below the knuckle.  
"How'd she do it, anyway?" He asks, finally.  
"What?"  
"How'd she get the picture?"  
Seth sits up, slowly, wiping at his mouth.  
"Left my laptop in Iowa."  
"You left that shit on your laptop?" Ambrose is holding the razor with the blade pressed to his palm. His eyebrows are retreating under his bangs. His eyes are dark in that unnerving way that means he's soaking all of this up, adding it to his mental Seth Rollins file.  
"She figured out my ICloud password. And my browser had some passwords saved in it."  
"So." Ambrose shifts a little uncomfortably. "You wanted her to find out."  
Seth is too tired to get properly defensive at that. His head is killing him and his entire body aches.  
"Maybe. Yeah. Probably."  
"Man, that's fuckin' brutal. That's as bad as the cheating."  
Seth presses his palms against his knees.  
"The fuck it is."  
"Come on, man. You were an asshole. You hurt a nice girl."  
Seth can't help it; He breaks into his best heel smile, the one that always means "Fuck off".  
"Turns out she wasn't all that nice."  
"Yeah well," Ambrose's smile is hard around the edges, "Most people are pretty fucking sick deep down."  
 Something about the way he says it makes Seth shiver.  
"Well, most people don't get to work out their aggression by hitting each other with chairs."  
Seth shifts, leaning back against the counter below the sink. They're across from one another diagonally. Ambrose's legs are stretched out just a few inches away from his on the floor.  
"You still going to Abu Dhabi?"  
"As far as I know. I gotta check with the office today."  
Fuck. He could be about to get fired. The shock of that thought is a warm, angry coil inside him that cuts through his hangover, making all his muscles tighten up.  
Something is clearly still bothering Ambrose. Ambrose does not like to ask for information, Seth knows. He prefers to observe. Seth stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest and waits.  
After a long moment, Ambrose shifts, and looks him in the eye.  
"You alright?" Ambrose asks, voice rough.  
It takes Seth a second to process that. Ambrose has definitely asked him that before, but it's always in the context of "I just split your lip open" or "Do you have a concussion?" Either Ambrose doesn't normally give a fuck about Seth's personal life, or he doesn't ever say so. Seth doesn't know what to do with that level of scrutiny, or with the soft, careful way Dean's looking looking at him, as if Seth has some kind of right to be wrecked over this mess he got himself into.  
He's pretty impressed with himself that he hasn't punched anything yet.  
"Yeah," he says steadily, "It sucks but it's fine. It'll be fine."  
Ambrose nods and wordlessly gets to his feet.  
Ambrose and Roman take off shortly afterwards, in search of coffee and breakfast. Neither of them are going on the Abu Dhabi trip, so they're both sticking around an extra day for the Smackdown taping.  
After they leave, Seth drags his suitcase into the bathroom and locks the door. He takes a long, thorough shower, and washes his hair a little more roughly than usual. He wants to masturbate, just for the feeling of it, but he's too hungover for it to be worthwhile. He wipes some of the steam off the mirror, and stares at his own reflection. His body looks the same. It feels the same. That feels wrong, somehow.  
There's an ache inside of him that wants to be let out, but he's too tired. He doesn't have room.  
An hour later, he's in the car on the way to the airport when he gets a text, from Ambrose.  
_Safe flight_ is all it says. He texts back without thinking.  
 _You too._  
 It's a forty five minute ride to the airport. Seth closes his eyes and goes to sleep.


	2. Be Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song by the Afghan Whigs.

Seth's meeting with the office does not go well.  
Triple H shakes his hand, calls him "son" and asks if he's alright.  
"Yes sir, I'm fine," he says. Aside from his hangover, a terrifying accumulation of messages on social media, strangers looking at him like they've seen him naked, and the fact that he might want to burn down his house in Iowa so he never has to look at it again, he really is. Fine.  
"That's good. I'm glad you're not letting this get to you." Hunter says, clapping him on the shoulder. They're in the executive dining room of at a downtown steakhouse in New York for lunch during the four hour layover before the flight to Abu Dhabi.  
Stephanie keeps answering text messages on her phone. Seth's been her employee for years, and he generally thinks that she is every bit as terrifying and capable in real life as she is on television. Hunter is the one who runs the day to day, but Stephanie is the one who you do not ever want to mess with. One is never not under a microscope when in her presence.  
"You did a nice job with your public apology" she says. Seth takes a bite of steak and chews it as casually as he can manage.  
"But we still have a PR problem, and while that's not entirely your fault, unfortunately you have to bear some of the consequences."  
Seth finishes chewing and swallows.  
"Like what?" He asks.  
"We can't let you cash in Money in the Bank at Wrestlemania, Seth. I'm sorry."  
The center of his chest goes cold first, like someone’s dropped a lead weight inside him. The feeling spreads down to his stomach and settles there.  
"You're serious?" He stares at them. "You want last match to be Reigns and Lesnar? Without me?"  
"Nobody's said it's going to be Roman Reigns," Hunter says quickly. Seth rolls his eyes.  
"You're not gonna let Daniel Bryan have it two years in a row. Of course it's gonna be Roman. He's your guy."  
Hunter's enormous shoulders shift inside his jacket, suggesting displeasure that doesn't show on his impassive face. Seth doesn't care. Last match at Wrestlemania is the most exclusive club in all of professional wrestling. It's the biggest mountain to climb. Seth’s been looking forward to this match ever since a very secret meeting with Vince six months ago, but really, he’s been looking forward to it since he was six. Over the last three months he's intensified his training, watched his diet, let the doctors treat minor injuries that weren't even a problem yet even though there's absolutely nothing he hates more, and above all else: kept his mouth shut. He hasn't been allowed to tell anyone, not even other people within the company, without risking legal consequences.  
"We can still make great use of you in the Authority storylines," Stephanie says, watching him intently, "You're a great heel. You're very popular."  
Seth grips the edge of the table tightly in his hand to keep from losing his temper. "So you want me to just randomly keep curb stomping people without building any kind of momentum?  No feuds, nothing personal?"  
Hunter looks at Stephanie.  
"Randy's coming back. Seth was the one who stomped him off television."  
"That could work," Stephanie says thoughtfully.  
"What if Randy doesn't wanna work with me?"  
It's not out if the question. Orton has certainly come a long way since his days of shitting in gym bags, but he's as egotistical as they come. Seth guesses that the reason they don't clash better in the ring is that he has too much empathy for Randy's smugness to properly resent him for it. When you're that good, it feels punitive to be treated as if you're anything less.  
"Randy works for WWE, and will do what's asked of him," Stephanie says. She's polite, but she's clearly not fucking around.  
"Okay," He says, draining the last of his water. He's still hungry, but the way the food tastes doesn’t register. Or matter.  
On the plane to Abu Dhabi, he goes to sleep numb and wakes up mad, twelve hours into the eighteen hour flight. He stays that way through baggage claim, the infinite nightmare that is customs, and the ride to the hotel.  
Abu Dhabi is like something out of a futuristic anime. It's a metropolis of skyscrapers and lush greenery amidst beautiful, lonely desert. The heat is dry and oppressive, and the air conditioning in nearly every building is unbelievably intense. Seth is surprisingly grateful to spend a few days away from cell phone reception so he can focus on doing his job- signings, press events, doing shows every night. He skips his morning runs and steps up his time in the gym. He sucks it up and pays three times what he's used to in order to buy himself a new laptop from the duty free.  
By this point, several of the girls he's hooked up with over the last few years have taken time to reach out to him on social media and either let him know that they're still available, now that he’s officially single, or that he's a total scumbag. Zahra has blocked him on Facebook but they're still twitter friends.  
   
He gets an email from his father on the first day, demanding to know about how he's going to make up with Leighla. Why the fuck do you care, it's not like we were even going to invite you to the wedding, Seth types back before he comes to his senses and deletes both the email and his draft of a reply. Fuck that.  
The Abu Dhabi shows themselves are amazing. The crowds are excited and enthusiastic, and they tear the fucking house down. Seth pulls out moves he never gets away with using on television and the audience eats it up. The second night, two young women in Armenian flag tee shirts are holding up a sign with his face on it. Seth climbs over the barrier and takes some selfies with them that make the rounds on tumblr and instagram.  
 All together it's almost enough to make Seth forget that he has a life to go back to that's fallen apart on the other side of the world.  
The hotel is more lavish than Seth's used to, and also higher security. He has to show his WWE ID and room key card to the security personnel before he's allowed to access the elevator. His room is in the middle of the floor they've got reserved for the top tier wrestlers. It's got bay windows, with lush, heavy curtains and a gorgeous view of the park in the courtyard. The walls are thick and the bed might be the most comfortable thing he's ever slept on. The first day he wakes up in it, he thinks about the fact that it would be the absolute perfect place to fuck someone, long and slow and a little rough, the way he likes.  
After the show on their second to last night, Seth weighs his options. The main roster divas division is back in the states for Smackdown. The behind the scenes staff are all contractually off limits. He figures the best he can do is find a random tourist who doesn't know enough about wrestling to recognize him, but does know enough to be impressed by the fact that he's handsome and makes makes a lot of money.  
He pulls his hair back, puts on his black button down, a pair of dark wash jeans, and a pair of fancy sneakers from one of his sponsors. He studies himself in the mirror. He used to dress like this on date nights with Leighla.  
He hits the bar in the lobby first, only intending to stay long enough to get a buzz without having to show anyone his visa.  
A killer blonde with fantastically muscular legs is sitting by herself in a corner. He does a double take when he realizes that it's Charlotte Flair. They've probably never said more than ten words to each other. She's wearing a short red dress that shows off most of her amazingly muscular back. She's not his type at all, but Seth has trouble looking away from her.  
"This seat taken?" He asks, pulling out the chair across from her. She looks up at him consideringly.  
"You can sit if you like," she says, after a moment's reflection. There’s a glass of red wine in her hand. She's not wearing very much makeup- only black eyeliner and mascara, as far as Seth can tell.  
He joins her, and orders a drink.  
"You planning to get out and enjoy the nightlife?" She asks. Her voice is low and cool and honeycolored, like bourbon poured over ice.  
Seth smirks. He doesn't quite know yet if he wants to fuck her, but he can tell there's potential for it to happen.  
"For once, yes," he says, watching her take a sip of her drink. He can't remember if she's divorced or just not wearing her wedding ring.  
"Bayley and I were gonna go out, if you want some company."  
Damn.  
"Wouldn't want to interrupt ladies night," he says. Deference to ladies night is one of those things that will always score you points with girls. Sometimes being faux-respectful of it will even make them leave their girls so that they can go home with you.  
Charlotte seems less than convinced.  
"I've seen you do it before. With Carmella."  
Seth takes another sip of his drink.  
"That was only one time. And that was her idea. She asked me to a drive her back to the hotel."  
"Yeah," Charlotte says, flatly, "So she could fuck you."  
Seth doesn't really know what the right answer to that is.  
"All we did was make out in my car," he says. It's true- he didn't fuck her. He did finger her in the car, but she didn't get him off in return, so it doesn't count.  
Charlotte's phone buzzes on the table, next to her handbag. She picks it up and scans her texts.  
"Your phone works over here?"  
"My dad has a lot of money, and worries when he can't get in touch," Charlotte says. Seth laughs. Charlotte frowns after a moment, then types something into her phone.  
"Bayley facebooked. She's not coming. Says she's too tired."  
"Bummer," he pauses, giving her a moment to reflect on their current situation before he asks, "Do you want another drink?"  
Charlotte studies him for a moment before she agrees.  
"Sure."  
They order a bottle of wine to split between them, and they drink half of it in less than an hour. Charlotte is a lot of things Seth didn't expect- she's wryly funny,  confident, and she genuinely doesn't seem to give a shit about what happened with his nude photos on the internet.  
"Trust me," she says waving a hand when he brings up the subject, "My dad did worse in his day. The only reason I don't have more thorough documentation to deal with is because nobody had cell phones back then."  
This isn't the full picture of her, he knows. This is just one part. But he feels loose and warm and he's aching to let something go, and the part of her she's willing to share might be the best way to facilitate that.  
"Do you do this kind of thing often?" She asks, gesturing vaguely with a finger.  
"I'm gonna need some clarification on what 'kind of thing' you're referring to."  
"Does the E send you on a lot of these tours?"  
"You know they do," he says. He's not sure why he's in the mood for no bullshit tonight, but Charlotte seems unfazed.  
"This is my first one," she says, and there's a secret warmth in her eyes that isn't normally there, "I'm really enjoying it so far."  
"The first one is totally cool. It's after the sixth or seventh that it gets a little monotonous."  
She stares him down over the rim of her glass.  
"Yeah, I know the drill. One freshly made bed in a city you don't have time to explore after another, right?"  
"I suppose you'd know all about that, being in the family business."  
"Yup." She takes another sip of her drink. She smiles slowly. Seth's not really sure what to make of the way she's looking at him.  
"What?" he asks, after a moment. He wonders if there's anyone who knows what the little smile on her face really means.  
"You know, it might be the wine talking, but I can totally see why Zahra wants to fuck you," she says.  
He laughs a little nervously. There’s a part of him that’s still a skinny fourteen year old that will never quite get over pretty women talking to him like that.  
"What does that mean?"  
"Come on, Rollins. I know what you came here for."  
Seth sets his glass down. He's buzzed enough to be warm around the edges.  
"You're pretty in a certain way. You talk about yourself constantly but you never really say anything."  
Seth leans forward, setting his chin in his hand.  
"Want me to leave you alone, then?"  
Charlotte tilts her head to one side. Her hair spills over her shoulders.  
"I didn't say that."  
She glances at her phone again.  
 "I'm rooming with Bayley. So what happens next is, at least partly, up to you."  
 Seth drains his glass and sets it on the table.  
It is one of the great gifts of his professional life that they do not run into anyone they know on the elevator.  
 Seth swipes his key card in the door, and gestures Charlotte in ahead of him. She's wearing tall shoes with little buckles on the straps. She sits down on the desk across from the bed and takes them off, dropping them on the floor.  
 Seth watches, transfixed in the haze of alcohol. She’s got beautiful hands.  
 He leans in to kiss her, but doesn't get there. Charlotte presses a finger over his mouth.  
 "No," she says, and for a wild minute he thinks the whole thing might be over, but then she leans back on the desk, lifts her hips. Seth takes the cue, sliding his hand up her thigh. She lets him, so he reaches all the way up her skirt to pull her panties off. He works them down her legs slowly, kneeling, brushing a hand over her knee. She looks down at him below her and laughs, low and throaty.  
   
"Get on with it, Rollins." She nudges him with her ankle.  
 He does. Her hips are thicker, sturdier than he's used to as he works her dress up, and the flat planes of her stomach feel a little foreign against his hands as he feels his way into it, bracing himself to go down on her. Charlotte pushes herself forward so her legs are over his shoulders, and he takes as much of her weight onto his back as he can, lifting her up to bring his mouth against her.  
 Charlotte's pussy is warm and slick. He peels her open as much as he can without his hands, teasing at the lips with his tongue before going in for the kill. She doesn't moan, which is annoying, but her breathing picks up, rougher and more jagged. He applies pressure with the flat of his tongue and she arches back.  
He can feel her lock her ankles against his back. She giggles.  
 "Tickles," she says, "Your beard" and he has to suck down on her clit to keep from drunkenly laughing along with her even though it's not funny what the fuck.  
 It feels like he's down there for hours, back burning, trying to coax it out of her, when she grabs at his hair. She shifts, sliding herself off his shoulders and back down onto the desk.  
 "Get up," she says. He wipes his mouth on his wrist.  
 "What?" She lays her hand on his shoulder and closes her eyes.  
 "Shh," she says, "Lemme do it," and then just like that, she's working herself hard with her fingers, grabbing at her breast through her bra, whining and whimpering and ignoring him completely until she finally fucking comes.  
She sighs happily, like the tension's eased out of her. Seth is stunned and a little speechless.  
 Charlotte slides herself off the desk, testing her feet experimentally on the carpet.  
"You still wanna fuck?" She asks, pulling her dress over her head. She reminds him a little of every girl who ever rejected him in high school, though the resemblance isn't physical. There's something regal about her, about the way she takes off her bra without even trying to be sexy for him. It's hot, and weird, and it makes something warm and guilty curl inside his stomach.  
He's still hard, so when she turns and flicks her thumb over his belt buckle, he gets with the program. He strips, and looks up to find her sitting on the bed, watching.  
She's smirking at him.  
   
"God," she says, "You really do look like a Ken doll."  
"With some obvious exceptions," he says, and he strokes his cock, lightly, just to see if she's into it. She watches, but her reaction doesn't give him anything to go on.  
"I've got a condom in my purse," she says, "But I just realized it's a little old. Might not be safe."  
 "Nightstand," he says, joining her on the bed, "Bottom drawer."  
 Charlotte raises an eyebrow at him, but digs around until she finds one.  
 "How did you know this would be here?" She asks. Her fingers are a little drunk-clumsy as she tears it open. Seth laughs.  
 "I put it there."  
"You just have a routine, where you put condoms in the bottom drawer of the nightstand of every hotel you travel to."  
Seth leans down and licks at the hollow between her breasts.  
"Yes."  
"Wow," she says, dragging her fingers appreciatively down his back. She squeezes his shoulder a little roughly. "Just how much of the divas division have you fucked at this point?"  
She pushes him up so she can roll the condom down on him. Her grip is nice and tight.  
"Do you really wanna know?" He plies her knees apart so he can kneel between them, laying a palm on the flat of her hip. She inches a little closer on the bed, but doesn't lean up into his touch.  
"Not really," she says. Her eyes flick down his body until she’s staring at his cock, "Just fuck me."  
This part, at least, Seth is sure he can be good at.  
This is Seth's favorite part of sex, when he can finally stop strategizing and let his entire body get  
involved. Charlotte arches her hips up into it when he slides into her, and it feels good, so good, just to ease into that slick, inviting heat. She clenches around him, and fuck she's strong. He feels the breath leave his lungs and he sucks in another as deliberately as he can. Charlotte's got one leg bent, the other hooked up around him for leverage.  
"Seth, come on," she says, and he rocks in and out once, slow, then harder and faster. Charlotte finally moans, and it's a delicious sound, nice and thick and deep. She drags her hand down his chest, harder this time, using her nails, and Seth centers his concentration around the sensation like a mantra so he doesn't lose focus. Charlotte grips his shoulders and pulls him down onto her, and he buries his face in the gap over her shoulder, closing his eyes. It's so good to finally have release in his sights after the longest week of his life.  
"Can I?" Charlotte locks her legs on either side of him, and he's not paying attention because he just nods, and then. Fuck. His head is spinning and what the fuck is even happening because he's on his back on the bed. Charlotte's flipped them all the way over with just her thighs, because she is a freak of fucking nature, and Seth is too stunned to even know what to make of the way that makes his entire body seize up at once.  
When the live-wire feeling in his spine fades out he realizes that Charlotte is straddling him, fucking herself on his dick. And christ, what the fuck just happened to him, because how did he miss even a second of that? She's really gorgeous like this, sweaty and flushed, flexing around him as she rocks her hips.  
 "Come on, just a little more," she pleads, and Seth snaps back into it, grabbing her hips to pull her down onto him. She moans, and grinds against him, and he pants and closes his eyes. He’ll last a little longer if he doesn’t look at her. She slides down onto him hard, digging her knees into the bed. Seth works a finger against her clit, flicking it. Charlotte moans and flexes around him tight, and then they're both coming; her second orgasm, his first, startled out of him like a shot.  
 Charlotte gasps, leaning forward to press her head on his shoulder. She's too tall; it's an awkward angle for both of them, but Seth just cups the back of her neck and lets her, because holy fuck. He's just never been manhandled like that by a girl who was strong like that during sex before, and as disorienting as it was, it definitely turned him on.  
 Charlotte rolls off of him, and he takes a moment to admire her like this- sweaty, breathing heavy, but far from spent. He wonders how much she can bench.  
 They lie there for a moment, catching their breath.  
 "Thanks Rollins, that was good," she says, smacking him lightly on the chest as she sits up.  
 Seth goes up on his elbows, staring at her.  
 "Yeah?" He can't help it- he's disappointed. He's not sure how long it would have been till he would have been ready to go again, but he really wouldn't have minded a second round.  
 Charlotte yawns as she zips up her dress. She doesn't bother with the bra or her panties- just stuffs them into her handbag.  
 "Yeah, it was a long day. I gotta do press tomorrow." She sits down to buckle the strap on her impractical shoes.  
 "Okay." He sits up. "You gonna be alright?"  
 She smiles wryly at him.  
 "Yeah, I'm two floors down. See you around," she says, like they're not on the same flight in like 36 hours.  
The door swings shut with a clack on her way out.  
Seth has exactly enough energy left in him to peel the condom off, tie it up, and toss it in the trash before he goes to sleep.  
 In his dreams, everything is white. There are hot, greedy hands clawing at his back and chest, and no matter how hard he tries to shut his eyes he can't fight the urge to keep them open because he doesn't know what's happening to him, he doesn't know if he can keep the anxious feeling in his chest contained inside him but he can't make it go away. Every second is like an eternal nightmare of doubt and misery.  
 He wakes up breathless and terrified and dry mouthed. For the second time in a week, he runs to the bathroom and pukes his guts out. This time, there is no one there to witness it, no one to check on him and ask if he's okay. He is alone, in a hotel full of people he knows but doesn't trust, and even if he were able to admit that he needed it, he still has nobody to call.  
The jet lag is fierce, but he sleeps nineteen hours the day he gets back, and wakes up rested in time for his workout before RAW.  
He runs into Ambrose backstage for first time since coming back. Ambrose is getting ready to go on; His hands are taped up, his hair is wet, and he’s got his headphones on, shifting  back and forth on the balls of his feet as he punches at the air. There's a light sheen of sweat on his collar bone, just above the neckline of his tank shirt. Ambrose juts his chin up when he sees Seth, and weaves his way around the other people backstage to come up and give him a punch on the arm. Seth nods, and wordlessly offers him a fistbump, which Ambrose returns. Seth knows better than to speak to him right before he goes on. No matter who his opponent, Ambrose is always competing against himself first and foremost.  
Seth heads back to craft to rehydrate before last match. It's largely deserted when he gets there, except for Renee and Summer standing off in a corner talking. There’s a man standing next to Renee, and he says something that makes her laugh. Then he puts his arm around her waist and the reason for his presence dawns on Seth.  
Seth raises an eyebrow because this guy? This is the fucking guy she picks after Ambrose? He's got dark wiry hair and a  thoroughly average looking face. He's standing next to Renee in a gray suit, white shirt, and a dark blue tie that matches the color of her dress. He's not at all someone Seth would peg as a competitor for Ambrose. This guy's not even in the same league, let alone the same ballpark.  
Like most moderately famous people,  Renee is used to people staring at her when they have no valid reason to be doing so. Eventually she senses it and turns to look right back at Seth. Seth puts his feet up on the foldout table and sits back, staring back at her. Let her look. Let her deal with his judgment for awhile for what she's done.  
And that's when he wonders- does Ambrose know about the new boyfriend yet?  
He gets too his feet and goes to find Roman. He's standing over by the monitors watching Ambrose and Barrett have their match.  
"Roman, I just saw Renee at craft. She brought her new boyfriend to the show tonight."  
Roman seems to grasp the import of this because he sighs and shakes his head.  
"Aw man. That sucks. Poor Ambrose."  
"We should tell him so he's prepared." Seth says, folding his arms over his chest.  
Roman raises an eyebrow. "We?"  
"What?"  
"You said 'we'. No offense, Seth, but you don't normally give a shit."  
Seth isn't sure why he feels so affronted by that but he does. He clenches his fist.  
"Roman, I'm his friend."  
"No. I'm his friend. You're the guy we used to work with every day for two years who says hi sometimes when it's convenient. You didn't even know they broke up months ago until he told you."  
Seth feels like he's been struck.  
"So what, this is a fucking popularity contest now?"  
Roman shakes his head. He doesn't look angry, Seth realizes, just exasperated.  
"Man, when you found out, you came to me. Cause you guys are not tight like that. You're not someone he goes to when he’s in trouble. You're just returning the favor from the other night, cause you don't like that you owe him one."  
Roman claps him on the arm dismissively and pushes past.  
"I'll tell him. Thanks."  
 Seth watches him go.  
 


	3. Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Fall out Boy.

Seth wakes up the morning of Fast Lane to the breaking news that Brock is leaving for UFC the day after Wrestlemania. The internet is on fire.  
The wrestlers in the main events are all ordered to report to the arena four hours ahead of their usual call-time. Everyone is indiscriminately freaking out.  
Creative sequesters themselves in a closed door basement meeting.  
Seth and a few of the others litter the hallways, restlessly waiting.  
Roman scrolls through his phone, looking intermittently like he's ready to run a marathon or be sick. As irritated as Seth still is by the whole thing, he does genuinely feel a little bad that Wrestlemania is coming into question now on top of all the pressure Roman's already under.  
Ambrose rolls in about an hour after their call time, wearing jeans, thick black sunglasses, and a dark gray hoodie. He looks like he's gotten a full night's sleep and made peace with whatever wave of bullshit they're all about to be trapped under. True to his class warrior ethic, he has three paper cups of gas station coffee in hand, two of which are stacked atop one another for balance. He passes one to Roman and one to Seth.  
"Thanks," Seth says. It's dark roast, black with sugar, the way he likes.  
After an hour, the door to the room where Creative is meeting opens, and only Paul Heyman steps out. He looks tired, as though he’s been involved in vigorous debate. His suit jacket is folded over his arm. He’s typing something into his phone, but glances up at all of them.  
“Gentlemen,” he says smoothly in acknowledgement. He gives Roman a fatherly pat on the shoulder as he passes. Roman nods at him in return. Roman and Heyman have always had some kind of mentor-student bond that Seth will never really understand. He knows that everything about it is above board, and that it probably doesn't give Roman unfair advantages with the office, but it still makes him uncomfortable.  
A moment later, Stephanie walks out into the hall. The sharp heels of her shoes clack on the concrete.  
“Seth, Roman, if you'll both follow me inside.” she says.  
Seth gets to his feet. Ambrose tosses his empty coffee cup in the trash and gives Seth and Roman each a squeeze on the shoulder.  
“Eat 'em up, boys" Ambrose says. Roman smirks at him. Seth nods his thanks. He feels shaky and  
nauseous all over again.By announcing he's leaving WWE so early, Lesnar has deflated any potential sense of anticipation over the victor of the main event. Seth is a hundred percent sure that Lesnar did this on purpose, and he’s also certain that none of them will ever get a straight answer out of him as to why. Whatever the source of the fallout, it must have been pretty bad, because throughout the entire meeting Vince looks red faced and desperate. His voice is even rougher than usual, as though he’s spent half the morning yelling himself hoarse.  
When they walk out with their new marching orders, Seth feels like he does when he’s at the gym; fueled with purpose and anticipation. It carries him through, propelling him in a buzz of adrenaline and euphoria. Playing an angry villain is even more cathartic than usual now that he has something to look forward to. Seth shoves people around and stomps on them and blusters about his own self-importance and it feels great.  
The month leading up to Wrestlemania is a blur. Seth takes a rare handful of days off but spends every single one of them doing laundry, sleeping, and trying to stay as fit as possible. Everything else falls by the wayside, his focus narrowing into a straight tunnel.  
He spends so much time preparing for Mania that he almost forgets about the Hall of Fame induction ceremony.  
The Hall of Fame is the day before Mania, and it’s a big deal. Fans pay a small fortune to attend a red carpet event in tee shirts and jeans in which all their favorite wrestlers from every still-living generation strut around in formal wear like bugs under glass. It’s immortalized on the collector’s DVDs for all of time, and Seth doesn’t want to go stag the same year that the internet has branded him a cheating manwhore.  
Deciding who to ask to be his date is a challenge. A surprising number of the divas that he finds attractive are married. Alicia is single and gorgeous, but something about her suggests instability, and not the “crazy/hot” kind. Paige is almost exactly his type, but he’s not sure he could handle spending an entire evening under the scrutiny of the Total Divas horror-show, and she’s probably too smart to let him fuck her. Rosa is clearly insane and not hot enough to be worth the effort. He could take Summer Rae, because she would definitely fuck him, but she would also definitely tell Renee about it in excruciating detail, and that thought makes something inside his stomach twist in a way that he doesn’t want to think about. He briefly considers texting Charlotte to ask if she’ll help him out, but stops when it dawns on him that she’s most likely going to be sitting next to her dad. Sasha is hot enough to be a definite possibility, but she’s good friends with Zahra, who probably still has her very own set of naked Seth Rollins photos she could upload to Instagram at a moment’s notice.  
He’s still drawing a blank when he literally runs into Bayley at the Performance Center. She’s coming around the corner, and they collide. Seth's in sweats with his hair tied back, heading to the physio guy to get stretched out. Bayley is in scoop neck tank top the color of a highlighter, black leggings, and purple running shoes that have honest to god smiley faces on them. Her breasts bounce as she stumbles, recovers, and stands back up to her full height. It's a little distracting.  
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,” she says, laying her hand on his arm like she’s making sure he’s alright.  
“My fault,” he says, putting on his best charming smile.

“No, really, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she says, smiling back.  
She’s on her way to the office to drop something off, but he invites her to grab lunch with him in the cafeteria after she’s done. She accepts.  
During the one year they were both in NXT, Seth never really bothered getting to know Bayley, but it turns out that she is a lot of things that Seth likes. She’s athletic, pretty, and has been interested in wrestling since she was a kid. She can list title holders from every major promotion with an ease that would impress Ambrose (who is Seth’s personal benchmark for History of Wrestling Encyclopedia.) She also knows enough about Seth and his own career to think that he’s pretty cool. They start talking about training, and somehow end up spending a whole twenty minutes on the subject of facebusters, with Bayley opining that she's mostly had to take them out of her moveset since she came to NXT. Seth isn't sure that's a bad thing.  
"Facebuster done right is a strength move, but your opponent needs to be able to really sell it or it's gonna look like you're both trying too hard. Plus, you've got strength. They already know you have that club in your bag."  
"So you think I don't need it?" She asks. She's between fork fulls of what is supposed to be some kind of homemade vegan cheesecake.  
"Depends." He leans forward on his elbows. "You want advice? Or you want me to stroke your ego?"  
Bayley laughs.  
"Just the advice, please," she says earnestly.  
Seth takes a sip of his water.  
"What you need is finesse."  
"Yeah?" She appears to be genuinely interested.  
"You're strong. You can hang. But you're choppy. Your enthusiasm is good, but the crowd can see you solve for x when you're working. You're too honest."  
Bayley pauses, considering this information.  
"So how would you suggest that I get there?"  
Seth leans back and folds his arms over his chest.  
"You've got natural skill, which means a lot of this comes easy to you. You gotta stop doing stuff that you're comfortable with and do more stuff that freaks you the fuck out. Do it for months in training before you ever take it in front of the crowd. Practice with anyone and everyone you trust. Practice with people who are better than you. The easier the hard stuff is, the better and smoother the easy stuff is gonna be."  
"That's good advice," she says thoughtfully. "Thank you." She pauses, taking a bite of her cheesecake.  
Seth is surprised to realize that he's enjoying himself.  
“You must be so excited about next week," she says.  
"Yeah, it'll be a good show," Seth says. Smart but humble usually works on girls like Bayley. Her face reminds him of somebody's kid sister, but he can't remember whose.  
"Hey, I still need a date to the Hall of Fame," he says nonchalantly, "Do you wanna go?"  
"Really?" Her eyes are almost comically wide.  
"If you don’t mind being my arm candy," he says, gesturing hastily at himself. Bayley beams at him.  
"I would love to! But are you sure you wanna take me?"  
She's so guileless that it throws him off. She probably makes really cute faces during sex.  
"Absolutely. I bet you clean up okay."  
She leans across the table and hugs him. She smells nice.  
"Oh wow," she says, her eyes going wide, "I have to buy a pretty dress!"  
"Text me the color so we can coordinate," Seth says. He learned that trick from his high school prom date and it's come in handy more than once.  
"I totally will!"  
When she leaves, Seth tosses his empty water bottle in the trash and makes it; A nice clean rim shot. Score.  
At the last Raw before Mania, he's waiting backstage to go on when Ambrose comes up and hips checks him. Seth kicks in return, tagging Ambrose in the shins. They shuffle around each other for a minute, fists raised before Ambrose drops his guard.  
"They letting you cash in at Mania?" Ambrose asks. There's a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth.  
Seth is not supposed to talk about it, but he can't stop himself from grinning. It's the best he's felt in weeks.  
That's all the answer Ambrose needs, because he grabs Seth by the shoulder and pulls him in to bump their foreheads together, almost hard enough to hurt. They don't normally do this kind of congratulatory thing, not since the SHIELD broke up. Ambrose smells like clean sweat and deodorant and leather. Up close, something about the look of quiet pride on his face makes Seth's chest ache.  
"You and Roman, you guys are gonna fucking crush it" Ambrose says before he releases him.  
"Thanks, man" Seth says.  
Seth heads to Gorilla to go on. He usually doesn't get excited about facing Orton, but tonight he feels bright and warm all over, like there's a battery under his skin.  
When the segment is over, he checks his phone and discovers that Bayley has texted him a picture of the dress she's picked out. She's going to look amazing in it. On his way to the airport, Seth swings by an upscale department store and picks up a gold tie.  
California is beautiful and warm. All the restaurants list calories on their menus, there are paleo food trucks, and, even better: professional quality crossfit boxes everywhere. LA is just close enough to San Jose that the hotel has strict policies about not bothering their guests; no cameras in the lobby, no visitors who aren't on the guest list, and security guards keep close tabs on all the activity in the parking lots. It's a kind of temporary paradise.  
A group of teenage girls at the airport spot Seth, Ambrose, and Roman as they're waiting for the shuttle from the airport into the hotel. One of the girls starts crying and drops to her knees.  
"You'd think you guys were the Beatles or something," Roman's wife says, raising an eyebrow as one of the girls tries to help pick her friend up off the floor. Roman laughs affectionately and takes Galina's hand. Roman is never happier or more relaxed than he is when he's with her. The two of them are so much photogenic pretty together in one place that Ambrose keeps making jokes about sun blindness.  
"I call Ringo." Ambrose says automatically. Seth rolls his eyes.  
"We're not even together as a group anymore," Seth says, mock-irritated. He knows that's part of the appeal. The girl on the ground has progressed into ugly crying. Her mom is looking at them all apologetically.  
"Man, you're totally the Lennon. Fuckin' killjoy."  
"Roman's not the Lennon?"  
"Roman's the face. He's Paul. You're the talented, obnoxious dick that nobody likes." Ambrose wraps Seth's neck in a headlock and ruffles his hair, just because he can. Seth swats his hand away.  
The night of the Hall of Fame ceremony, Seth meets Bayley around the back of the hotel near the service entrance. All of the fans are in town by now, so WWE has advised all their superstars to be as discreet as possible as they make their way to the venue. Seth figures the stretch limo is a dead giveaway for potential stalkers that someone famous is coming through, but he really doesn't give a fuck.  
Bayley really does look gorgeous in her dress. It's dark blue with an asymmetrical neckline that shows off her shoulders and collarbone. The bottom of it is a cut in the opposite direction, and shows off a surprising amount of leg. Her hair is sleek and straight, hanging down around her shoulders, and her makeup is understated and elegant. If she were someone Seth had an intimate relationship with, his hands would be all over her the second they got in the car.  
"You look great," he says sincerely. Bayley beams at him.  
"Thanks! So do you! Very dapper." She smooths her hands lightly down his lapel. Her nails are painted a subtle pink color that glimmers in the light.  
He opens the door for her, and that's when it hits him, like ice in the center of his chest, that he misses Leighla. A lot. She always glammed up for these events. He used to like that. He used to feel so good putting his arm around her, showing her off. He remembers standing next to her last year, watching Brie Bella and Daniel Bryan walk arm and arm together in soon-to-be-married bliss and thinking We're gonna have that someday.  
The red carpet for the ceremony is an elegant clusterfuck. Some of the old timers are stumbling drunk out of their cars before the fucking show has even started. Many of them have a disappointing interpretation of the dress code. Reporters from E, Access Hollywood, and ESPN flit around asking stupid questions, and photographers keep shouting Seth's name so he'll look at them so that they can take his picture. Seth poses next to Bayley for a few of them, and then steps to one side so she can get some pictures by herself.  
"You two look great!" gushes a stick-thin blonde reporter whose name he doesn't know, "How long have you been together?"  
"About twenty five minutes," Bayley says without missing a beat, "Would have been fifteen, but there was traffic on the highway."  
Everybody laughs.  
"How was that?" Bayley asks him in a hushed voice as they make their way inside.  
"You're a natural," Seth says. It's true. She's making him look good. He should probably reimburse her for whatever stupid amount of money she paid for that dress.  
They're trying to find their seats when Seth spots Ambrose for the first time that night, standing a few rows below them, alone. He cleans up nice; his suit is well-fitted, and his hair is neatly slicked back. He's watching Renee, who is dressed up to the nines, boyfriend in tow, laughing as she talks to John Cena and Nikki Bella.  
Ambrose looks like he wants to kill himself.  
Seth balls up a copy of the program and throws it at Ambrose. He misses.  
"You played actual sports in high school, right?" he asks Bayley. She smirks at him, then leans over to Terry Funk, who is seated in the row behind them.  
"Excuse me, Mr. Funk," she says. She pinches the top of the program he's holding. "May I take this? Do you need it back?"  
Bayley hits Ambrose squarely between the shoulders with two programs balled up together.  
Ambrose turns and looks up at them, startled.  
"Come sit with us!" Seth calls. He doesn't give a fuck about kayfabe, or the seating chart.  
Ambrose picks the crumpled programs up off the floor and throws them back. Bayley catches them one handed with ease.  
Ambrose raises an approving eyebrow and glances at Seth. Seth shrugs. Ambrose makes his way up the aisle, and joins them.  
"How the hell did you of all people manage to get a hot date, Rollins?" he says. It's like the preceding moment where he was publicly mooning over his ex girlfriend never happened. It's a cowardly play, but Seth respects it.  
"I asked her." Seth says, smugly. Bayley beams at them both.  
The ceremony itself is too long, but it's way more fun than Seth can remember having in previous years. Bayley and Ambrose are both the kind of people who talk through movies, and they gossip, whispering, the whole time. The Macho Man Randy Savage tribute has both of them in tears, a fact that Seth would never let Ambrose live down if not for the fact that he himself gets a little misty eyed. WWE gives a posthumous award to a little kid who died of cancer the year before, and Daniel Bryan gets openly weepy about presenting it in a way that would definitely detract from his manliness if he weren't Daniel Fucking Bryan.  
Afterwards, Bayley and the other divas in attendance get their pictures taken with Alundra Blayze. Bayley can't stop smiling. Seth takes the picture of Bayley and Alundra together with Bayley's iphone, and can't believe he did this well at getting a date by accident.

There is an after party to attend at a fancy nightclub in the area. Ambrose joins them in the car. He stares out the window, distracted.  
"Dean," Bayley asks sweetly, "Are you excited for the IC title match tomorrow?"  
Ambrose doesn't look at her.  
"Yeah," he says, "It'll be good. Truth had us all cracking up during rehearsal."  
"Well don't let me down," Bayley says, "I'll be rooting for you!" Predetermined outcomes be damned.  
Ambrose actually turns his head to one side and smiles at her. Seth is willing to bet cheering people up is one of Bayley's specialties.  
"I'm thinking it's gonna be Ziggler this year." Seth says. Ambrose rolls his eyes.  
"Fuck you, Rollins," he says without malice.  
The nightclub is dark and loud and has a whole area roped off for the WWE tables. Bayley immediately drags Sasha and Charlotte over to sit with them, and they arrive with Sami Zayn in tow. Sami can't take his eyes off Bayley, which makes Seth feel like even more of a stud.  
Ambrose buys the table a round of beers and they toast to Wrestlemania before they knock them back. Sami toasts with soda, because he doesn't drink alcohol.  
"This place is insaaaane," Sasha says happily. She's clearly a little drunk already. Seth can't blame her; NXT’s exhibition matches are already over, so all she has left to worry about are signings and photo ops. Charlotte is seated next to Sasha in the booth, and they look especially pretty together in red and plum respectively.  
A Beyoncé song comes on and Bayley pretty much loses her shit.  
"NXT ladies! Report to the dance floor immediately!" She says, jumping to her feet. Sasha gets up and grabs Charlotte's hand. Charlotte playfully protests, tugging back from her seat.  
"Char, you said you'd dance with me!" Sasha pouts. She stomps her spiky-heeled foot on the floor once.  
Charlotte relents, smiling. And....woah. Seth knows she never looked at him with that much heat when they hooked up. Sasha looks extremely pleased with herself as they push through the crowd to find an open spot on the floor.  
"Do you think those two..." Seth lets the sentence dangle off into space. Ambrose shrugs. Ambrose is never impressed by who's fucking who. It’s equal parts cool and frustrating depending on the context.  
"Might explain why they're so explosive together," Sami says. He's watching Bayley dance out of the corner of his eye.  
"You mean in the ring?" Seth asks, taking a sip of his beer.  
Sami nods.  
"Yeah."  
Seth shrugs.  
"I dunno what that has to do with anything, but if you say so."  
Ambrose shakes his head. The melancholy from earlier seems to have settled back over him.  
"You guys are crazy. There's hot girls who can wrestle, dancing right over there, and you're sitting here talking about whether or not people are fucking. This is a glorious thing, and you're wasting it."  
He gets up and heads to the bar.  
Sami stares off into space for moment, as if letting himself bask in this truth.  
"Seth," he asks finally, "Do you mind if I ask Bayley to dance with me? I know she's your date."  
Seth smirks. He doesn't have a problem with it, but he really enjoys that he's staked his claim well enough that Sami would feel the need to ask in the first place.  
"If she’s okay with it, so am I." He says. He knows that's the gentleman's answer. Sami nods.  
"Thanks man."  
Seth sits back and enjoys his buzz. He's not gonna get wrecked when he has Mania tomorrow, but being tipsy won't hurt.  
Sami does dance with Bayley. Turns out he can skank. Bayley laughs and does it with him, which has to be tricky in a dress and heels. She looks pretty and happy. Seth knows he's supposed to feel bad about seeing them together, but mostly he's glad she's enjoying herself.  
He joins Ambrose at the bar. Ambrose is working on a second beer.  
"How's your night?" Seth asks. He mostly knows the answer already.  
Ambrose shrugs.  
"I'm almost at that point where I’m cool, and then I see her, and then it just feels shitty."  
"Fuck her anyway," Seth says. This has been his standard response to girls who've broken up with him, and it's always served him well.  
"It wasn't her fault." Ambrose says. His tone is level but the expression on his face brooks no dissent. Seth finishes off the last of his own beer.  
"What the hell happened, man? Did you cheat on her?"  
Ambrose stares at the beer in his hand.  
"No."  
"Really?" Seth's never understood how Ambrose isn't knee deep in pussy all the time. Girls pass out when he signs things for them and send extremely explicit messages to the twitter page that he never checks.  
"Nope."  
"Not once?"  
"Never."  
"Why not?"  
Ambrose looks at Seth like he's going to punch him.  
"I don't cheat."  
Seth shrugs. "All guys cheat."  
"No. They don't. You might need to believe that to make yourself feel better, but it's not true."  
Seth sits up straighter on his barstool.  
"What the fuck is your problem, Ambrose?"  
"This shit is tired," Ambrose sets his beer down and turns to face Seth, "You had a nice girl who was probably in love with you and you pissed it away. I had a girlfriend, who I thought was the love of my life and she left me cause she wanted me to move in with her and I knew it wasn't gonna work so I said no. Your fiancée left you cause you lied to her. I was honest, and now I'm alone."  
Seth stands up.  
"You wanna take this outside?"  
"No, I wanna finish my drink in peace so I can go sleep before I have to perform in front of eighty thousand people tomorrow."  
Unbidden, Roman's words from the week before come back to Seth.  
"You don't like that you owe him one."  
"You seem like you wanna take it outside," Seth says. He grips Ambrose by the shoulder, "You seem like you wanna hit me."  
Ambrose shakes his hand off and smacks it away.  
"I'm not gonna hit you."  
"You want to."  
"Fuck off."  
"You'll feel better,” Seth says, and it comes out in the nasty heel voice, the one that's flat and mean enough to work somebody up.   
"You are not gonna make this about you." Ambrose gets up. He stalks off to the bathrooms on the far side of the dancefloor. Seth's heart is racing in his ears as he follows him.   
Normal people are fond of asking wrestlers to explain what goes through their minds when they get in the ring. The truth is, it's the guys who think too much who get their heads split open. After a certain point, Seth wants to stop thinking and just move.   
By the time Seth makes it through the crowd, Ambrose is leaning in front of one of the sinks splashing cold water on his face.   
“Hey,” Seth says. Ambrose looks up, watching Seth in the mirror. In the cheap florescent lights, every line on his face stands out. His collar is soaked from the tap.   
He looks like he’s at war with himself. Seth knows the feeling.  
Ambrose rests his hands on either side of the sink, watching.  
“What do you want, Seth?” he asks, finally. He sounds tired.  
A fight.  
“I don’t know.” Seth says. It’s the truth. There’s a warm, tight pull in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure what it means, other than the fact that he’s supposed to be here.  
Ambrose steps back from the sink and cracks his own neck with both hands. The sound of the bones popping echoes in the quiet of the bathroom. The bass from the music outside thumps softly through the walls.  
“But it’s something,” Ambrose says quietly, almost to himself. He backs up, drying his hands on his jacket.  
“What?”  
Ambrose faces him. His eyes are mysterious and guarded, but something about the slant of his shoulders is different. Cautiously hopeful.  
“You want something.”  
Seth doesn’t know why his throat doesn’t work right. He feels hot all over, but he doesn’t know why.  
“But you don’t know what.” Ambrose takes a step towards him.  
They’re three feet apart. Then two.  
“A distraction?” Ambrose offers. He steps in, and Seth wants to take a step back but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why.  
“I don’t-”  
Their eyes lock. Ambrose is staring straight into him now. There’s less than a foot between them, and Seth wants to shout or hit something but it’s like he doesn't have it in him. He can’t speak or the illusion will vanish.  
“I can work with that,” Ambrose says. His voice is smoky and sweet. He hooks a hand behind Seth’s neck, pulls him in, and kisses him.


	4. Head First

Time stops.  
All of Seth's awareness narrows down to his mouth. He's standing still, Ambrose anchoring him there, with their lips pressed together.  
Seth pulls back a fraction, his eyes snapping open (When did he close them?) He stares. Ambrose shifts back a few inches. Waits.  
It's like circling each other in the ring during the razor sharp moment at the start of a match.  
It's an offer.  
Ambrose is drawing patient, forcibly even breaths. He still has one hand on the back of Seth's neck, and the other clenched into a fist at his own side. His palm is cool from the water in the sink, but his breath is so hot, like he's going to immolate from the inside out.  
Seth's not sure what makes the connection between his brain and his body switch back on, but when it does he’s astonished. It's like being thrown at the cold, hard ground for the very first time after months of learning how to fall on soft practice mats; you know how to take the landing but you still don't know how it's gonna feel before the impact hits.  
_Holy_ _fuck_ , Seth realizes, _I_ _want_ _him_.  
He leans forward, knocking their foreheads together. It feels good; hard, solid bone under soft skin, and suddenly Seth can't, doesn't want to stop himself from shifting the angle, leaning to kiss Ambrose again; more fully, more urgently.  
Ambrose groans appreciatively, opening to it, and it’s so different from the way Seth normally gets kissed but it feels really good. It's not like the uncharted waters of short-lived, combustible passion with a stranger, and it's not easy and comfortable like six years with the same person. It's rough and messy, and it feels totally new and familiar at the same time, and Seth runs his hands tightly across Ambrose's shoulders, grounding himself in the feeling of it as much as he can.  
They part, breathing roughly. Seth opens his eyes.  
Ambrose is watching him closely, checking to see if Seth is freaking out.  
Seth can't let himself freak out. It's too surreal.  
"Fuck," he says instead.  
Ambrose laughs. It's a low sound, and Seth can feel it rumble in his chest. It makes something hot and electric surge all the way down to Seth’s groin. Seth is suddenly frustrated with the amount of clothing they both have on, which is by far the strangest Ambrose-related thought that he's ever had. It's terrifying and he doesn’t know how to wrap his head around it.  
Ambrose seems determined to make all the blood run south in Seth's body, because he leans in, kissing his way deliberately up Seth's neck. He finds a sensitive spot right below Seth's ear and takes his teeth to it before shifting up to bite down on Seth's earlobe. Seth groans low and bucks his hips, and Ambrose sighs softly, pleased. He wraps an arm around Seth's waist, pulling them closer.  
"Are we drunk?" Seth says idly, and oh fuck, that was definitely the wrong thing to say, because he feels the way Ambrose tenses up all over at that. Ambrose pulls his head back, and suddenly there's space between them again, and Seth shudders from the loss of heat.  
"I'm not," Ambrose says decisively. He's standing stock still, but the tension in his body suggests that he's ready to bolt at a moment's notice, even though he's hard. His hands are planted on Seth’s hips, but not firmly enough. Seth wants to feel him grip down, wants to feel those thumbs digging in against the grooves of his pelvic bone.  
"Are _you_ drunk?" Ambrose asks. There's an urgency to his voice that wasn't there before.  
Seth tries very hard not to panic.  
"No! I've had even less than you."  
"You have a lower tolerance."  
"Ambrose," Seth removes his jacket and yanks his tie off his neck, "You've seen me shitfaced. Look at me. I'm fine." He tosses the unwanted garments on the counter between the sinks.  
Ambrose frowns.  
"Why'd you ask, then?"  
"Because you've fucking never kissed me before," Seth says. It comes out louder than he means it to. Maybe even a little desperate. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry that he has to even say that, but he is.  
Ambrose exhales, slowly. His face is carefully neutral.  
“If you were totally sober, you’d still be okay with this?”  
Seth feels a wave of anger swell up inside his stomach. He doesn’t need to be treated like a fucking girl.  
“I’m saying yes. It’s consensual, or whatever the fuck they say at the fucking sexual harassment seminars.”  
Ambrose rolls his eyes, and for an agonizing second it seems like he’s pulling back, but then he takes his jacket off, and collects Seth’s jacket and tie, hanging them over his arm.  
“Okay,” He says, “Follow me.” And he walks down to the end of the row of bathroom stalls, into the handicap stall.  
Seth follows. He shuts the door and twists the metal latch, locking it behind them.  
Ambrose hangs their discarded clothes on the hook on the door. He pauses, scrubbing his hands over his face. He shuts his eyes for a moment, weaving his head from side to side like he does when he’s gearing up for a fight.  
Seth waits for him. It’s like launching himself into the air, waiting for gravity to take hold.  
A second later, Ambrose seems to have worked through his hesitation, because he crosses the gap between them and presses against Seth, solid and affirming, sliding his thigh between Seth's legs. Ambrose kisses him fiercely, licking his way back into Seth’s mouth like he’s starving. Seth rocks his hips forward and is overtaken by the friction of their cocks pressing together through layers of fabric. It’s so weird, but it feels amazingly hot.  
When they come up for air, Seth leans back, untucking his dress shirt from his pants. He unbuttons it, feeling a flash of smug pride at the hungry way Ambrose is looking him up and down, eyes half lidded, flushed down to his neck.  
"See anything you like?" Seth asks, smirking.  
"I see you shirtless all the time,” Ambrose says, amused. His hands are big and hot as they map Seth’s chest appreciatively before trailing down to his stomach.  
When girls touch Seth like this, it’s a heady, sexy feeling, as if they’ve overcome some kind of gauntlet and his body is the prize they get at the end of it. Ambrose doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself any less than Seth’s female partners have. It makes Seth feel a hot pang of anxiety on top of his arousal. Seth’s breathing accelerates. He can’t help it.  
As if on cue, Ambrose pulls Seth forward and grinds their hips together. It feels fucking amazing. It makes Seth want to do crazy things, like wrap his legs around Ambrose’s waist. He doesn’t do it, but he wants to.  
“Don’t think so hard,” Ambrose says softly, in Seth’s ear, “This is only gonna be good for you if you let yourself enjoy it.” The brush of his lips is electric. He runs a hand down Seth’s shoulder, laying it on the small of his back.  
Ambrose slides his free hand down to Seth's belt buckle.  
"Let me?" he asks, voice husky.  
He leans back to kiss Seth again, longer, with more pressure, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s trying to be persuasive or just asking for permission. Seth presses his tongue back into Dean’s mouth, as far back as he can manage, hoping that gets the message across; _Yes, yes, please, get on with it._  
Ambrose seems to have understood, because he breaks the kiss and drops to his knees on the tiled floor. He works the buckle open, pulls Seth's belt loose, and works the zipper down with reverent focus. He gets Seth's pants down around his ankles, and leans forward, sucking at Seth's cock through his underwear. It's so hot and filthy and abrupt that Seth bangs his head back against the metal wall.  
" _Fuck,_ sorry," Ambrose says, and he squeezes Seth's hip in apology. Seth groans.  
"You better use that mouth for something better than an apology, Ambrose," Seth says with as  
much rancor as he can manage. Ambrose rolls his eyes again, but his face is flushed with pleasure as he works Seth's boxer briefs down over his knees.  
"Bossy fuck.”  
Clearly he’s not upset about it, because Seth watches, mesmerized, as Ambrose spits in his hand, takes hold of Seth's cock, and sinuously takes the head into his mouth. He goes down half way; just far enough to hollow out his cheeks, then slides off, slow, rolling his tongue over it, working the base tightly in his hand. He licks a wet path up the length, a rapturous look of concentration on his face.  
Seth has never had a partner who knows first hand what it feels like to have your dick sucked, and clearly he's been missing out his whole adult life because fuck.  
"Christ," Seth pants, struggling to keep his eyes open. It’s so dirty that he can barely stand to watch. Ambrose flicks the point of his tongue back and forth over the slit, then traces the head in a gentle circle with his lips. He stares straight up at Seth, eyes blue and glassy.  
"You like that, huh?" Ambrose asks, voice rough. He's going at it with just his hand now, lazily teasing, applying intermittent pressure. _Fingertip pushups_ , Seth thinks, and suddenly the heat in his groin is spreading up to his stomach and he feels like his body’s on fire.  
"Fuck, Dean" Seth's hands are balled into fists, willing himself not to buck his hips up to get back into that mouth.  
Ambrose wraps a hand around the back of Seth's knee. It sends a hot tingle up the back of Seth's leg, making his dick twitch.  
"It's okay baby, I've got you," Ambrose says softly. He sounds so fucking _pleased_ with himself. He closes his eyes, and slides Seth back into his mouth, and finally goes back down. And all the way down, and _fuck_ , he gets Seth's entire dick down his throat. It’s like a small apocalypse. It feels so good, and so vulnerable, and Seth wants to come; he wants to come as hard as he can. He has just enough awareness left in him to tug on Ambrose's hair in warning, and Ambrose lets up with agonizing slowness. He doesn’t leave Seth hanging, just stays in it with him, using the flat of his tongue and squeezing at Seth with his hands until Seth comes screaming, so hard and fast that his stomach tenses up and his vision whites out.  
When he regains his senses, Ambrose is sitting back on his heels, breathing in roughly. _Oh my god,_ Seth realizes, _he swallowed all of it._ The thought washes over him, sending a frisson of heat straight to his still over-sensitive dick.  
Seth presses his thumb against Dean's lips. Ambrose sucks it into his mouth down to the knuckle, pressing his teeth against the joint. It's not something Seth would have ever asked him for but the fact that Ambrose enjoying it so much is incredibly hot. The sound when he slides off is filthy and wet, and Seth bizarrely knows he's going to jerk off thinking about it later.  
Where has this been? Seth wonders, dizzily. Was this always here?  
"Gimme a sec," Ambrose says. He unzips himself, and reaches in, pulling himself out. He goes up on his heels as he jerks himself off, cock thick and smooth in his hand. Seth's seen enough in the locker room to know that he's definitely a grower because damn. And also, woah, the whole gay sex thing is clearly not a drill, because the sight of Ambrose jerking himself off makes Seth’s mouth water.  
"Fuck," Seth says, because it's gonna be awhile before he's ready for more, but holy shit. Ambrose is breathing hot and heavy, and he presses his head hard against Seth’s stomach, eyes screwed shut. Seth's never watched another guy jerk off live and in person before, but he sort of wants to shove Ambrose back so he can see everything. Ambrose reaches up, groping at Seth's stomach, at his chest. Seth forces himself to keep his palms flat against the wall, staring, waiting, until Ambrose finally tilts his head back, bucking his hips forward, once, twice, and then groans "Fuck" softly as he comes, white and slick in his hand. Seth is kind of overwhelmed by the rush of disappointment he feels that he's not gonna get any of it in his mouth.  
Ambrose wipes his hand on a piece of toilet paper and flushes it. He tucks himself back in and zips up, getting to his feet.  
_Oh, I guess we're done here._  
Seth doesn't know how he’s supposed to feel about that.  
"Shit." Seth says, releasing a breath. He's got a lot of his clothes on but he's still 75% naked and covered in a thin layer of sweat. It's been a really weird night. Ambrose has the decency not to watch too intently while Seth dresses and reassembles himself.  
"You gotta put your tie back on, or Bayley's gonna think we got into a fight," Ambrose says.  
Oh fuck.  
Bayley.  
His date.  
Fuck.  
"Kinda surprised we didn't," Seth says truthfully as he re-ties the gold knot around his neck. Ambrose laughs. He reaches out and straightens Seth's tie for him and then....Seth's not really sure what's going on, but Ambrose is leaning forward and Seth is stepping back and his head hits the back of the stall and Ambrose freezes all over, like he's remembered himself, remembered that they don’t do this.  
"Right," Ambrose says. He smacks Seth lightly on the shoulder. "See you out there."  
Ambrose opens the door to the stall and walks out.  
Seth stares at himself in the mirror, smoothing his jacket with more attention to detail than necessary. His hair is a little fucked up, but there's really nothing for it. He wets his hands and smooths the edges down.  
When he gets back to the table, Sami is seated next to Bayley, one arm slung over the back of the booth behind her. He's trying to look casual, but it's evident from his posture that he's just dying to worship the ground she walks on. Seth usually hates guys who have to be all fucking obvious about it, but there's a funny twist in his stomach that tells him that maybe Bayley, of all people, deserves to have someone look at her like that; like she’s gorgeous and too good to be real. Ambrose is seated at the other end of the table, sipping water as if he's always been there. He looks the same. He looks tired. Seth feels like they haven’t seen each other in hours, even though it was minutes ago.  
"Seth, there you are!" Bayley says when she sees him coming. Sami's face falls a little, but he recovers fast.  
"Hey, sorry," Seth says. He slides into the corner of the booth, right between Bayley and Ambrose. Sami moves over.  
"You feel better?" Ambrose asks. Seth is startled to hear his voice, out here in the real world.  
"What?"  
"After you got some air," Ambrose says. Seth nods.  
"Yeah. It's nice and warm outside."  
"I love being back home in Cali," Bayley says, "It's so nice to have everyone here with me. I wish we had time to go to In N Out Burger."  
"Tomorrow," Seth says, "I promise." It’s sort of a relief to return to the role of being a charming date. At least he knows the rules.  
Bayley clasps her hands together.  
"Sami," she turns to look at him, "Is that okay for you to eat? I know you prefer to eat Halal when you can..."  
Sami shrugs. "It's fine. God's already gotta forgive me for doing fake violence to people all the time, so one more infraction won't hurt." He smiles, clearly pleased at the invite.  
"Seth, can he come with us?" Bayley asks.  
Ambrose is smirking at Seth because he's an asshole.  
An asshole who sucks dick like a porn star. Shit.  
"Oh sure. More the merrier."  
There’s a pitcher of water on the table that the waiters have left there in Seth’s absence. He pours himself a glass. His throat is suddenly a little dry.  
"Ambrose, do you wanna come too?" Bayley asks. She lays her hand on Ambrose’s knee.  
Seth feels so strange seeing them touch. He drinks his water.  
Ambrose nods. "Sure. Animal style. California tradition."  
"You guys are all trying to shorten your careers by ten to fifteen years," Seth says.  
"Aw come on, Seth, let the kids have fun."  
"They're the same age we are, Ambrose."  
“I’m a year older than you,” Ambrose says, because he loves to lord that over Seth.  
"And I'm actually thirty, so I'm older than both of you," Sami says. Bayley smiles at him, because finding other people interesting is apparently her natural state.  
"That must be kinda cool to have hit that milestone."  
Sami shrugs. "It's cool, yeah. It's a little weird, though. A lot of my friends are starting to settle down, get married, have kids. I feel like my life is just getting started."  
"Where did Sasha and Charlotte go?" Seth asks. He doesn't see them on the dancefloor. Bayley and Sami look at each other quickly, then back at Seth.  
"They. Um. Went back to the hotel awhile ago. Sasha was pretty tired, I guess." She doesn't look like she really believes it, but she's doing her best to sell it anyway.  
Ambrose smacks Seth on the shoulder.  
"Just do yourself a favor and keep your fuckin' mouth shut," he says.  
Seth glares at him, because he's supposed to. Because he doesn't know what else to do.  
They call for the car to go back to the hotel, and they all ride back together. It’s only just after midnight, but they all have long days ahead of them tomorrow.  
Bayley says goodbye to Sami in the lobby, and hugs him before he heads up. He closes his eyes, but has the decency not to lean into it for too long before he lets her go. He takes the stairs.  
Bayley turns to Seth.  
"Walk me up?" She asks. Seth realizes he wasn't expecting her to ask, but he nods.  
"Sure."  
"Night guys," Ambrose says. He kisses Bayley on the cheek. "You're a peach. See you tomorrow."  
Bayley hugs Ambrose too. Ambrose is clearly a little thrown, but he relaxes and pats her on the shoulder until she lets him go.  
"I'll be cheering for you!" Bayley says earnestly. Ambrose salutes her with two fingers, and heads for the stairs. Seth watches him take them two at a time before the door to the stairwell swings shut.  
Seth tries not to think about what would have happened if he and Ambrose had gone up in the elevator together, just the two of them.  
Bayley is on the sixth floor, and Seth is on the tenth. She takes his arm when they get off the elevator, and he walks her to her door.  
"Thank you so much for tonight," she says, hugging him, "I had a great time."  
"I'm really glad," he says. He genuinely is.  
"Good luck with your matches tomorrow," she says. The twinkle in her eye suggests that the use of the plural was totally intentional. Seth smiles at her.  
"Thanks," he says. "Root for me."  
"I will!" She kisses him on the cheek. "Goodnight," she says. She keys into her room and shuts the door behind her.  
Seth goes up to his room alone. He showers, plugs his phone in to charge, lays out his clothes and his gear for tomorrow, climbs into bed, and stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep.  
He wakes up at 4am in a cold sweat, breathing heavy. Seth wraps his arms around his spare hotel pillow and stares into the dark, wishing he had someone to hold.  
Seth wakes up the next day at eleven, and hits the buffet downstairs. He puts organic peanut butter  
and bananas on toast, makes a protein shake, and wolfs it all down before he hops in the car to the venue. He keeps his headphones on and doesn’t talk to anyone.  
He walks into the arena. It’s only one thirty, so nobody’s there yet except for the wrestlers, the crew, and Creative. The ring is already assembled. The crew members are laying down the final pieces of the entrance ramp.  
The Wrestlemania sign hangs brightly illuminated, right above the jumbotron.  
It’s the biggest day of his career. Of his life, so far.  
Seth takes a sip of his water bottle.  
His heart is pounding, but he feels calm.  
This is happening. This is real.  
He heads backstage.  
Seth warms up. The routine centers him, like it’s any other day.  
Rehearsals go very well. Everyone is excited and focused and wound up. They get final notes and changes from Creative. The wrestlers drift backstage in the shared misery of anticipation; dozens of physically active people trying to hold momentum, forced to surrender to the too-slow passage of time.  
He runs into Roman a few hours after rehearsal at wardrobe. Seth is waiting on one of the final touches of his new gear- a variation on the black paneled pants he already wears, with bright, fluorescent yellow piping down the sides of his legs, trailing down into a thicker stripe on his kick pads. Roman is waiting for the head of branding to finish deciding which new Roman Reigns tee shirt he’s going to wear during his backstage promo.  
“You guys have a good time last night?” Roman asks. He and Galina skipped the after party to go have a fancy married-people dinner with Naomi and Usos.  
Seth takes a drag on his water bottle.  
“Yeah, it was good” he says, automatically.  
Roman nods. Their wardrobe mistress, a harassed looking Dominican woman in her forties, holds a tape measure up to his bicep. She has a pencil tucked behind her ear, and an assortment of instruments that are a complete mystery to Seth, who always skipped home ec to hang out in the gym.  
“We’re going to need to take in the large,” she says to her assistant, “I keep telling them, this soft blended jersey is great, but I’m going to need to fix the waist to make it snug enough to be showy.”  
She runs her hand absently over Roman’s stomach in a way that is just utterly sexless, like he’s some kind of prop.  
Seth and Roman exchange amused looks, because, how fucking weird is this shit? How is this their lives?  
“Mr. Rollins?” One of the other assistants approaches him.  
She’s a blonde twenty something with hipster glasses and a nose ring. She looks a little frightened, which Seth tries to take as a compliment to his in-ring acting skills.  
“Your gear is ready.” She motions towards the screens that serve as makeshift dressing rooms. “Would you like to change so we can see how it fits?”  
He does, and it’s perfect. The costume assistant is thrilled.  
Seth is admiring his reflection when he spots Ambrose over his shoulder, talking to Roman. Ambrose catches Seth’s gaze in the mirror, and for a split second, they’re staring at each other.  
Seth breaks the eye contact, and adjusts the straps on his gloves.  
They didn’t speak during rehearsal. Seth’s glad, because he wouldn’t have known what to say.  
The show starts in half an hour. There’s a dark match, and then the Intercontinental Title bout is first on the card.  
Ambrose seems to take Seth’s silence as a cue, because he turns, silently, and starts to walk off.  
Seth’s calling after him before he can talk himself out of it.  
“Ambrose!”  
Ambrose stops, and turns. His face is carefully blank.  
“Yeah?”  
Seth forces himself to speak.  
“Good luck,” he says.  
Ambrose gives him a wry little half-smile.  
“You too.”  
It’s not normal for them, but it works. It’s doable.  
Seth allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief, and goes to camp out in the screening room to watch the show.  
The opening is great. The dark match this year is Naomi and Natalya. It's obvious that they're friends outside of the ring, and they have really good energy together. They do some really nice chaining, tossing each other around with skill and precision. The audience eats it up. Natalya goes for the sharpshooter, and Naomi escapes, running to the turnbuckle for her split legged moonsault off the top rope. Seth is impressed with how fast Natalya snatches her up into a brutal looking abdominal stretch hold that Naomi taps to almost immediately after.  
The six-way IC title match is a terrific, terrifying clusterfuck. The belt is suspended above the ring on a long silver cable, glinting brightly in the stadium lights. It's a great match; Ambrose is still the most creative brawler Seth has ever seen, R-Truth hams it up like Bugs Bunny after every spot, and Harper does a spinning side slam that gets an absolutely enormous pop from the audience. Kofi Kingston takes Ambrose down with a Spike DDT, and Seth smirks, because he’s been on the receiving end of one from Kofi before, and he has a neat little flashback of being flung down to the mat with incredible speed and power. Everyone fights hard enough to more than earn their due, but Daniel Bryan takes it in the end with a joyous smile on his face. The camera goes tight on Ambrose when he sits up, red faced and bloody. He looks like a scrappy, war torn anti-hero who's just seen his homeland desecrated. Seth claps along with everyone else, because it’s so cool when everyone gets themselves over even though only one of them technically did. There’s just no shame in losing to Daniel Bryan, especially not at Wrestlemania.  
AJ and Paige (“Pay-Jay”) take on the Bella twins next. Seth usually doesn’t care about Divas' matches if he’s being honest, but after winning a twitter war with the management, someone's definitely taken them off the leash. The highlight is at the end when AJ knocks Nikki Bella into the turnbuckle with a perfect shining wizard. Instead of going in for the pin, she slides to the ropes and tags Paige in, who pulls Nikki up for a sunset flip powerbomb (that Cole misidentifies as a sitting power-bomb until Corey Graves selflessly takes one for the team and corrects him.) Nikki doesn’t kick out, and Paige wins the Divas Championship.  
Bayley (who is watching with the rest of the NXT crew from up in the skybox) sends Seth a text with many, many excited smiley faces and exclamation points, and he has to agree with her that it was, in her words, “epic”.  
The Rhodes Brothers get their grudge match, at last. The whole locker room has been excited over it for months. The arena goes dark when Goldust enters, tall and graceful; backlit in a billowing gold coat. Cody, by contrast, is heralded in with fireworks and bright laser lights. He milks it, stalking his way down to the ring in full Stardust character, all childlike wonder and bombastic flash. The match is a beautiful clash of styles. Cody is vicious and unrelenting, hitting Goldust with some of his own moves. Goldust responds in kind by pulling out all his best finishers (including a fucking huricanrana). It’s tragic, and captivating, and Seth is mad that he has to miss the middle in order to get warmed up for his own match against Orton.  
Goldust wins, but it’s played off as bittersweet, as Cody retreats too far into Stardust to be saved. Goldust carries his brother’s body from the ring, and the outro music plays loudly and sadly. When they arrive backstage, everyone applauds. Cody grabs Dustin by the shoulders and hugs him tightly, and they share a tender moment before they go to accept the heartfelt congratulations of the rest of the locker room. Dusty Rhodes is there, and he's radiating so much fatherly pride that it hurts to look at him.  
Stephanie pats Seth on the arm as she heads to the on ramp.  
“Ready?” She asks.  
Seth nods.  
“Born that way.”  
“Good,” she says, and heads on to introduce him as the Authority’s Champion who will Defeat The Traitor Randy Orton Once And For All.  
It’s a good promo, and Seth gets fired up listening to it. He takes his hair down, combs his fingers through it, and dumps his extra water bottle over his head. He shakes his hair back so the water falls down over his shoulders and chest.  
He walks through the curtain, strutting to the drumbeat of his music.  
It is not possible to completely prepare to walk out in front of eighty thousand people, even if you've done it before. It’s like being assaulted with an invisible wall of noise. Heel Rule Number One is that you can’t look too closely at any one particular person or section of the audience. Always, you have to look above them.  
When he gets to the ring, Seth spreads his arms, smug, like a cult figure, and lets the cheers and “you sold out” jeers wash over him.  
Orton comes out to a huge pop, sauntering down to the ring like he means business.  He climbs up to the middle rope and hits his pose. There's something a little different in the way he does it as a Face- something about the set of his shoulders and the line of his mouth.  
Seth mics about how Randy stabbed him in the back, and Orton calls him "a spoiled child, acting out so that someone will finally teach him a lesson".  
The bell finally rings. Everything in Seth’s head finally goes quiet.  
They pace, circling each other; wearing the tension, letting it build. The anticipation carries out into the audience. It's a game, waiting it out to see who will go in first. Orton had suggested it at rehearsal.  
"It's a twenty five minute Mania match. Let the crowd quiet down. We have time," he'd said.  
It works.  
Seth's the bad guy, so he goes on the offensive first. Orton meets him there, and they lock hands. They struggle back and forth, trying to out-foot each other. Seth twists Orton up into a neck breaker and they both drop to the mat.  
Orton gets up immediately before Seth can go in for the cover.  
They circle again, closer this time. Seth charges, and Orton whips him into the ropes. Seth takes the momentum. He hits an enzuigiri, and Orton drops again.  
Orton gets up, like it's nothing. The crowd cheers.  
It isn't what they practiced at rehearsal.  
Seth hoists himself onto the middle rope and drops a knee on Orton, right below the neck.  
"Come on, _Randy_ ," he snarls, "You wanna be the grownup? Then fight me like a _man_."  
Orton gets up again. He stands there, smirking wide and predatory, like he's invincible.  
The crowd gets louder.  
Seth goes for a superkick. Orton grabs him by his leg and flips Seth onto his back.  
Seth jumps up to his feet. He rushes Orton, and Orton whips him into the ropes again. Seth winds up for another kick, and Orton drops him with an RKO.  
The cheering is explosive. Seth can feel it in his skin.  
This isn't what they planned. They were supposed to be evenly matched for the first half. Instead, Seth’s landing moves that should carry major impact and Orton isn't selling them.  
They pick up the pace. Seth's had matches with a lot of the industry's greats, but he's never been in the ring with someone who is as much of a natural as Randy Orton. He's utterly effortless, with all of Seth's hard won athletic ability and none of his anxiety.  
Orton uses an arm drag to propel Seth into the turnbuckle so he can start punching him, and the applause explodes with each successive hit. Seth sells it, and breathes deep. It's hard to plan the  
next move while trying not to get hit in the face.  
The ref gestures, and it means they've used half their time. Seth kicks Orton off of him to show he's got the message.  
He has to cash in and face Roman for the WWE championship in less than two hours. He has to walk tall. He can lose this one, he's supposed to lose, but he can't get steamrollered.  
Seth goes in for a roll-up. Orton kicks out at one and counters, rolling Seth over, digging his knee into Seth’s back. Seth yells in pain and the crowd loves it.  
Seth gets an arm under himself, and pushes up, flipping over so he can kick Orton across the face.  
Orton falls for it, and Seth withdraws his leg early, telegraphing so he can roll to his feet.  
He's going to be in so much trouble but this is Wrestlemania and fuck everything, fuck anyone and everyone who tries to get in his way.  
He drops an axe kick on Orton. A real one. Orton gasps a little, and stays down long enough for Seth to hit him with a curb stomp.  
The curb stomp is how Seth helped write Orton off television for four months, starting the kayfabe feud between them. In a bizarre parallel, Orton used to write people off television with the punt. The curb stomp is in every way its equal; precise and brutal, it looks like a killing blow. Seth knows Orton will respect the symbolism of the curb stomp, even if he respects nothing else in Seth's considerable arsenal. Orton knows damn well that to let the curb stomp roll off his back would destroy any and all dramatic tension in the match, and Orton is too dedicated a storyteller to let that happen.  
Seth runs to the corner while Orton is down, and carefully climbs to the top rope.  
In rehearsal, the aerial stunts came later, and it was going to be a simple moonsault. He's been told by Creative to save some strength for his match with Roman and Brock.  
Seth plants his feet on either side of the turnbuckle, and launches himself into the air for a phoenix splash.  
The first thing Seth learned about aerial maneuvers is if you want to survive them, you can't hesitate, you just have to commit. Hesitation ends as many careers as the taking of bad, senseless risks.  
For the first half of the jump, he's steady and sure, but he knows he's in trouble by the time he's halfway down. He has to choose whether or not to do the last 50 degree rotation at the end, and he's torn between his pride and the feeling of alarm that's going off in his body.  
He makes the last rotation, but not all the way, and not in time.  
Seth lands head first, and everything goes black.  
 


	5. Live Through This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hole.
> 
> This chapter has allusions to sexual trauma and sexual abuse. The following chapter will have some more graphic descriptions of it. I will be as thorough about trigger warnings as I can from here on out. The graphic descriptions are not gonna be something you will have to read over and over and over again as the story progresses, but they will come up, because it is part of the plot.

He comes to on his back.  
Everything is blurry, but there's a dark sky above him. It might be ceiling. He can't remember. He can’t tell.  
He has to get up.  
His body doesn't respond.  
He has to get up.  
Seth's senses come back online all at once. The pain in his head is one of the worst he’s ever felt, and it throbs loudly at him. He can feel the rough canvas under his back, and the cold dampness of his own sweat. He can hear the roar of the crowd.  
Orton leans into view above him.  
"Rollins?" Orton’s scanning his face, terrified.  
Everything is too hard and too sharp but his head feels fuzzy from the pain. He can't think in a straight line.  
He feels a pang of relief that things are less bright above him suddenly, and that’s when he realizes that Orton is pinning him.  
He can feel it on both sides of his body. He knows that's a good sign. He struggles out of habit, but he's not up to full strength. Orton doubles down and holds him there.  
“Come on man,” he says to Seth. He’s holding his head down, away from the cameras.  
“I'm not-”  
“We’re done.” Orton says. The ref calls the match in Orton’s favor. The noise of the crowd erupts.  
Seth sits up. Everything spins.  
He stands, shaking. His legs won’t stay under him, and he has to lean back against the ropes.  
He’s nauseous as fuck.  
He grips the top rope as hard as he can and holds on to stay standing.  
Orton goes up on the turnbuckle for his pose.  Seth tries to take a step forward. He can stay up, if he focuses very hard.  
He has to walk out.  
The medics are gonna be here any second, and they're gonna force him onto a stretcher.  
If he gets carried out, or wheeled away in a neck brace, that will be his Wrestlemania moment forever. He has to walk out.  
Orton is watching him, he can feel it. Eighty thousand people are watching him. Countless millions of people are watching.  Everyone he knows is watching. Ambrose is probably watching.  
He has to walk out.  
He takes a step.  
Orton steps forward, like he wants to help, but he holds himself back. He understands.  
The room spins. Seth has to go really carefully when he climbs out between the ropes and makes his way down the stairs beside the turnbuckle.  
He was supposed to lose, but he was supposed to be able to be vengeful about it.  
He was supposed to shake his fists and stammer and swear revenge.  
He makes it to the ramp, and he walks. He's dizzy, but he manages a more or less straight line by putting one foot very deliberately in front of the other.  
People applaud.  
He walks as tall as he can with his head held up.  
Seth makes it through the curtain. Then he scrambles to the closest trash can so he can throw up.  
Three medics form a circle around him. They keep asking him questions loudly, insistently. He wants them to stop. There’s someone trying to get him to sit still so they can point a flashlight in his eye and he swats at them without thinking about it.  
"Guys, give him some breathing room."  
It's Stephanie McMahon. She lays her hand gently on his shoulder. The hard edge of her voice is soothing, somehow.  
"Seth, we're gonna get an ambulance to take you to the hospital. You might have a concussion."  
"No, you can't," he says, "I have to cash in."  
Stephanie shakes her head.  
"We have to make sure you're okay," she turns to one of the medics, "Tell security they need to let the ambulance through. Use the loading dock out back."  
She hurries off down the corridor, hand pressed to the earphone of her headset.  
"I'm fine." Seth says firmly. He's really dizzy but he can stand.  
"Seth!"  
Roman is suddenly right beside him. He looks relieved, but also like he’s freaking out.  
"Man, we thought you'd broken your neck." Roman puts his hand on Seth's upper arm like he's trying to help steady him.  
"I'm fine," Seth says insistently. He pushes Roman's hand away. "I'm fine."  
The medics, stand there hesitantly, not sure if they’ll be allowed to approach Seth. It’s in his contract that he’s allowed to refuse medical attention if he wants to, though they can refuse to let him work if he does.  
"Seth, you gotta get checked out. That was a bad fall," Roman says. Seth shoves him off and has to press his hand against the wall to keep his balance.  
"I'm fine," he says, "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm ready."  
Orton comes through the curtain. He looks stricken.  
"Shit man, are you okay?"  
Seth wants to punch him.  
"Fuck you, Orton," he spits out, "You piece of shit.”  
Orton's eyes are wide and guilty.  
"Randy, leave him alone." Roman says, stepping between them.  
"This doesn't have anything to do with you, Roman," Orton says.  
"No? You just ruined the whole last segment of Mania, so I kinda think it does."  
"Hey, I didn't make him do that stupid party trick."  
"The hell you didn't," Roman says.  
“‘Party trick’? Hey, washed up pretty boy, you could never have pulled that shit off even in your prime,” Seth shouts back. Orton is definitely a gifted enough athlete to do the crazy shit that Seth does, but he never spent ten years coming up through the indies, honing his craft. He doesn’t have the training, or the drive.  
“The guy who just botched a jump is gonna stand here and tell me I couldn’t pull it off?” Orton takes a step forward. Roman holds up his arm between them and shakes his head at Orton in warning.  
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine." Seth says. He doesn't realize he's still yelling until he sees the looks on their faces.  
He doesn't need anyone to protect him.  
Seth's head is throbbing. He lets himself sink to his knees. No one will listen to him.  
“Seth,” Roman kneels down next to him, “You gotta go to the hospital. If you’re okay, I’m sure they’ll let you come back.”  
Seth can see in his eyes he doesn’t mean it, that he knows it isn’t true.  
At the first rehearsal a month ago, they’d decided: Brock was going to come out first. Lesnar himself didn’t seem to care much, but Seth could see that the idea had put Roman at ease. Roman is actually phenomenally comfortable in the spotlight for someone with relatively few years of experience in the industry, but walking out first at last match at Mania is a really big deal. It’s easier to be the conquering hero once the audience has had a chance to get properly worked up about the villain.  
The plan, Stephanie had explained, was for Lesnar to go on the attack right away.  
“It’s okay if you gotta throw me around, cause they have to think you’re going to kill me,” Roman said. Seth had been weirdly a little impressed with Roman that he’d been willing to step up. The aura of raw power around Brock Lesnar is palpable, even when he’s doing completely innocuous things like answering a text, or drinking from a water bottle. He’s probably the most terrifying person Seth has ever seen in real life.  
"So the question," Lesnar had said, eyes fixed on Roman, "is how real do you want it to look?"  
"No broken bones," Roman said, "But toss me, and I'll bite the inside of my lip on the way down."  
Seth had known, without Roman saying, that Ambrose had taught him that particular trick.  
"You have to go for a big move, and I have to counter," Roman said. He wanted to prove the internet wrong.  
Lesnar had looked thoughtful.  
"And then you turn it around, Roman?" Stephanie asked. She'd been seated in the front row of the arena with a pen and a stack of papers in her lap.  
"Gradually," Roman offered, "Like I'm desperate. And then you fire back, toss me at the ground again. Strut with your back to me, cause there's no way I'm getting up from that."  
"You wanna be the underdog," Lesnar had said.  
"That's a good idea,” Stephanie said, “That could work."  
"Then I hammer you from behind with a Superman punch," Roman said.  
Roman mimed the jump behind Lesnar. Lesnar had turned just far enough to watch over his shoulder. He makes everyone else on the roster look small.  
"And when you're stunned, I swoop in for the cover. We struggle, I get you dazed enough that you can’t see straight, and I hold you down."  
"You kick out," Roman turned and pointed to Seth, "And Seth comes down the ramp while you're still pinned. He hits me with the briefcase, cashes in, and the two of us shove each other around while you get to your feet."  
"We could take Brock down together," Seth suggested, "Over the rope,” he points to Brock, “Until you're counted out. You get DQ'd, Heyman goes nuts."  
Lesnar had raised an eyebrow.  
"Then there's no winner."  
"Exactly," Seth said.  
"Then Seth and I go at it, commentary milks our history together, Seth finishes me off with something really rough. A curb stomp?"  
Stephanie smiled.  
"And then Seth walks out the new WWE Champion."  
Lesnar had folded his arms across his chest.  
"Let's try it," he'd said.  
Seth can't stop himself from replaying it over and over again in his mind as he lies, cold and miserable, in the back of the ambulance.  
The hospital is awful. He's allowed to change back into the regular clothes he has in his suitcase, but he has to keep a fucking neck brace on the entire time.  
The doctor is a Chinese woman in her late fifties who has clearly seen everything and doesn't tolerate any bullshit. She makes him go for an X-Ray and a CT Scan, and runs him through a battery of questions to determine how mentally alert he is.  
His phone keeps buzzing, but they won't let him touch it.  
"You can't use it till we get the results back" says one of the nurses as she takes his blood pressure, "You won't get good reception in here anyway."  
The wait is agonizing. Seconds stretch on eternally. He can feel the most important match of his career, back in the stadium, waiting for him. He’s stuck on a gurney in an emergency room, alone, head pounding, with fucking nurses watching him every second to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like try to walk unassisted.  
The doctor finally comes back.  
Seth has a concussion. The doctor shows him his scans; Seth doesn’t know how to interpret them, but they look terrifying anyway.  
“It’s not bad, you were very lucky,” she explains, “But you’re going to need at least two weeks of rest, and I would strongly suggest against flying anywhere or driving a car for at least a few days. Also,” she pauses, frowning, “one concussion means that you’re three to five times more likely to get another one. This is already your second. You might want to consider a profession that poses less frequent risk of injury to your head.”  
“Yeah,” Seth says, “I’ll get right on that.”  
She looks up from the vicodin prescription she’s writing him and gives him a look.  
The doctor offers to recommend a good chiropractor, and Seth turns her down.  
They move him into a room so they can keep him for overnight observation. He is at last allowed to use his phone.  
Seth has four missed calls from his mom, a text from his brother, texts from Jimmy and Marek, a series of frantic “OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY” texts from Bayley, and an email from Cerrano instructing him to call the office once he knows what his prognosis is.  
His botched Phoenix Splash is wrestling-internet front page news. Someone’s already made and posted a very pixelated gif by the time the broadcast has been over for twenty minutes. An hour later, there’s a Buzzfeed post of “Top Ten Most Painful Looking Botches in Wrestling”. Marek’s Shooting Star Press makes the list at number five. There’s an honorable mention for Shockmaster.  
Seth sleeps three hours overnight in the hospital. It’s uncomfortable and miserable. Nurses keep coming in and watching him, owl-like in the dark.  
In the morning, there’s an artsy black and white photo of Roman holding the championship belt on the main page of the WWE website. Seth stares at it for a moment before he turns his phone off so that he doesn’t put his fist through a wall.  
Everyone is still in San Jose for the RAW and NXT shows on Monday. Bayley texts him, asking if she can visit, if he needs anything, if she can bring him In N Out Burger. Seth declines, even though part of him wants the company. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.  
He doesn’t hear from Ambrose, but then, he doesn’t really think there’s a reason he should expect to.  
He pays the hotel to ship the rest of his things back to Iowa so he won’t have to risk running into anyone he knows from work. The concierge he talks to on the phone is incredibly rude about it, but she softens a little when he explains the circumstances.  
Seth calls the office. Hunter asks him how he is with an almost-fatherly false caring that makes Seth’s skin crawl. Hunter always has an agenda, and Seth normally respects him for it, but right now he just wants for them to be in different states as soon as possible. WWE gives Seth two weeks medical leave.  
Seth changes into sweats and a hoodie, checks out of the hospital, and takes a cab to the airport so he can fly home to Iowa against medical advice. The flight is seven hours long. He puts in his noise cancelling headphones and washes a vicodin down with some bitter tomato juice and finally, finally sleeps.  
The airport is shitty, but the familiarity of its shittiness is comforting. His car is still sitting in the long-term parking from his last trip home three months ago, but his mom insists on driving in to pick him up like he’s still seventeen.  
“Oh honey,” she says when she sees him. She’s already starting to cry as she pulls him in for a hug that he doesn’t really want. He’s a foot taller than her, and has to keep his neck held stiffly upright because it hurts too much to look down.  
“It’s okay, Mom.” he says.  
It isn’t.  
She puts on a Taking Back Sunday CD that he used to like when he was in high school as she drives them home. It’s meant to be comforting, but it mostly makes him feel helpless.  
His mom insists that he come home with her, and he's too tired to argue. Her house, the house he grew up in for the latter half of his childhood, is only a half hour drive away from the house he and Leighla used to live in together.  
His bedroom is the same as it was in high school, with an extra layer of dust. He’s been gone long enough that for just a moment, when he opens the door, he can smell the familiar muskiness before his senses readjust.  
He sleeps for three days, waking only to eat, use the bathroom, and relieve the monotony of inaction on his muscles with stretches. He’s not sore the way he was on the first day, but he’s still too dizzy to work out.  
On Friday he wakes up at seven in the morning and does pushups for half an hour until his head starts spinning and he has to stop.  
He goes stir crazy and calls Marek.  
"Get me out of here," Seth demands. Marek laughs like he can hear the boredom in Seth's voice.  
"I'm teaching till six, but I'll come by after," he says loyally. He's true to his word.  
Seth has known Marek longer than almost anyone else who works in wrestling. They grew up in neighboring small towns, and once took a legendary road trip to Chicago together in the summer to start training back when they were teenagers. As adults, they were tag team partners on the independent circuit for two years. They've always had an ease and camaraderie between them that Seth doesn't have with many people, probably owing to the fact that Marek has never treated Seth like a threat to his own career. They don't get to hang out as often as Seth would like, but when they do, they always manage to pick up where they left off.  
Seth hasn't seen Marek face to face since before the nude photos leaked online. He isn't surprised when Marek smacks him on the arm, hard, when Seth climbs into his car.  
"What the fuck, man," Marek says, leaning across the gearshift to hug him, "How've you been?"  
"We shouldn't start with me," Seth says. Marek laughs. He's cut his hair again, and he's back to dying it black. It suits him. He drives them to a dive bar that they used to favorite back when they were in the county wrestling league. The routine of it is soothing- familiar trees and signs and gas stations.  
They settle into a corner booth with a couple of beers, and order spicy buffalo wings with several different kinds of dipping sauces that Seth's nutritionist would yell at him for even looking at.  
“So seriously,” Marek says, once the waitress bring them their food and has retreated to a safe distance, “How are you?”  
Seth swallows a mouthful of beer.  
“I didn’t take any vicodin today so that I could be here, having drinks with you. So I’ve been better.”  
Marek laughs wryly.  
“I’ll bet. How’s your head?”  
Seth sighs. “It hurts. And I haven’t worked out in a week, and it sucks.”  
“That sounds awful,” Marek takes a sip of his beer. “Have you talked to Leighla since…?”  
“No.” I mean," Seth stares at the wood grain of the table, "I sent her an email a few weeks ago but she never responded."  
It had been 2 am and a moment of weakness. He's not proud of it. In the harsh light of day it’s two paragraphs, and reads like terrible poetry.  
Marek looks surprised.  
"You didn't call her?"  
"Nope."  
"Dude. Seth." Marek’s eyes are wide, "That's really bad."  
"I know."  
"So you're not trying to get her back?"  
Seth takes another sip of beer.  
"No," he says finally, "I'm not."  
He's never said it out loud before.  
"Okay," Marek says. He's a good enough friend that Seth can hear the "I am disappointed in you" in his voice.  
"She moved in with some friends of hers. I saw it on Facebook," Seth says. Marek nods.  
They eat and drink in silence for awhile. When Marek finishes his beer, he orders them a second round.  
"So that other girl. Are you guys...?"  
"No," Seth says, "I haven't talked to her either."  
"Wow."  
"Do we have to talk about this?" Seth asks. He doesn't want to go wherever this conversation is leading.  
"Sorry, it's just, I think you've had a girlfriend almost the entire time I've known you. I've never known you to not at least be hooking up with someone."  
Something on Seth's face must give him away, because Marek’s eyes go wide.  
"You are hooking up with someone?"  
"You know you're not actually a teenage girl, right?"  
"Dude, come on. Who is she? Do I know her?"  
Marek is trying to do the guy bonding thing, and Seth is grateful, he really is, but his stomach twists uncomfortably because he doesn't know if he can talk about this. He doesn’t know if he wants to.  
There are ways he can get out of it and still tell the truth enough that it would satisfy Marek’s curiosity. He could talk about Charlotte and her flipping him over, and how it was weirdly sexy. He could talk about how she's hooking up with Sasha now, and how hot that probably is, and how cool it would be if he were allowed to watch.  
And he could talk about Bayley, even though they haven’t done anything, and how pretty and smart and funny she is, and how she's teasing him, making him wait. She's not; as far as he can tell, she doesn't want to fuck him. She might actually want to be friends with him.  
He doesn’t want to talk about them.  
His head hurts, and he’s tired, and Marek is a real friend who is looking at him with concern because he's been quiet for too long.  
"I haven't hooked up with anyone." Seth says.  
Marek rolls his eyes.  
"Uh-huh."  
They finish their wings and order more. Marek isn't as much of a crossfit junkie as Seth but he still hits the gym everyday, and has the appetite to match. In between matches on the local independent circuits, he's been working on some basics with a few guys from the local high school who want to get trained after they graduate.  
"They're sweet kids, and a lot of them have potential. I really like working with them even though they can't pay me a lot," he says.  
It's cool seeing Marek so confident and passionate about something.  
"You seem like you're really enjoying it," Seth says.  
"I am. If I can get the cash together, I kinda wanna open a school."  
Seth slaps him on the arm.  
"No shit. That's terrific. Let me know if you need investors."  
He's not kidding. He's been in a pretty good place financially since the Shield, and everyone knows how hard it is to get trained if you live in the Midwest. Marek could start something really special.  
Marek smiles in the way that means he's touched.  
After Seth finishes his third beer they call it a night. Seth's warm and pleasantly buzzed as they head out to the car. It occurs to him that he might have been drinking more often than usual lately. He wonders if that means anything.  
Marek drives them around the route they used to like in high school when it was still exciting to be out late, avoiding your parents.  
Seth turns the music down when they're about ten minutes away from his mom's house.  
"Mare," he says quietly. Marek glances over.  
"Yeah?"  
"I hooked up with someone."  
Marek smirks.  
"I knew it."  
Seth takes a breath.  
"It was a guy."  
He waits, scrutinizing the silence for some kind of reaction. Marek doesn't give him one.  
"And?"  
Marek is one of those guys who is mostly straight, but has totally gone with guys before. It’s just not a big deal to him.  
Seth shifts uncomfortably, "It was pretty hot."  
Today was the first day Seth's been home that his body wasn't too tired or too drugged up to get a hard on. He'd tried not to, but had ultimately surrendered himself to jacking it thinking about Ambrose and his mouth.  
"You guys only hooked up one time?"  
"Yeah," Seth says, "So far."  
He hasn't heard from Ambrose the whole time he's been home. That wouldn't have been abnormal before, but now it sort of makes him anxious.  
"So..." Marek takes a left so he can loop back around the block. The streetlights glow orange, casting long, streaky shadows across the road in the dark.  
"So?"  
"So you seem...I dunno, kinda upset about it," Marek says.  
"I mean," Seth looks at his hands.  
"Do you wanna fuck him again?"  
"It was just a blowjob."  
"Is that bad?"  
"No! I mean, I dunno, Mare, it was kinda weird."  
"Dude," They pull up to a stop sign. The corner is deserted. Marek leans over and squeezes Seth's shoulder. "I totally get why it would be weird for you after last time, but it really doesn't mean that anything's changed."  
It takes Seth a second to parse that.  
"What do you mean 'after last time'?"  
"I mean, it makes sense that you would hesitate, even if you liked it. But that's okay, man, hopefully this guy will be cool and let you take it at your pace."  
"No, wait," Seth turns to stare at Marek as they pull through to the next light, "What do you mean 'after last time'?"  
Marek glances over at Seth.  
"You know," he says. He sounds like he really expects Seth to get it.  
"I've never had sex with a guy before," Seth says steadily. Marek's eyes widen.  
"Seth. Did you forget I was there right after?" He's looking at Seth like he's a little scared. Seth's got a tight, anxious feeling in his chest.  
"What the fuck are you talking about?"  
Marek stops the car, way harder than usual at a stoplight. They're the only ones on the road at this intersection, and it's a good thing, cause he's staring at Seth.  
"Seth," Marek says carefully, "How much of that night do you remember?"  
"What night?"  
And all at once, it comes back to him.  
The white light. The hands. His own cold, clammy sweat.  
It sinks into him like hot lead, blooming up from his stomach.  
Seth remembers.  
He sits there, dazed, utterly speechless for a moment. Marek is freaking out.  
"Seth? Seth?"  
They're pulled over next to a field that belongs to one of the local farmers.  
Seth unbuckles his seat-belt and stumbles out of the car, getting down in the tall grass on his hands and knees. He digs his fingers into the wet, cold ground as he throws up.


	6. Your Secret's Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT IN THIS CHAPTER. Please see the end of the chapter notes for specifics if you need them before you can decide whether or not to read it.
> 
> Thanks to MarryFunkKill and EgoTrippen, for being the port in my storm, always, and for not disowning me publicly when I wouldn't stop shouting "I TOLD YOU SO I TOLD YOU SO" half a million times after Rollins cashed in at Mania 31.
> 
> Chapter title from "Get Busy Living Or Get Busy Dying (Do Your Part To Save The Scene And Stop Going To Shows)" by Fallout Boy, of course. (Damn Pete, what was going on with the song titles on From Under the Cork Tree?)

The first time Seth remembers it all the way through, it's like the whole thing is happening all over again.  
It's 2008 and the biggest Ring of Honor event of the year is tomorrow. He's in a gay club in New York City with Jimmy Jacobs. They've been there for maybe an hour, drinking and talking at a booth near the bar. It’s Friday, so it’s busy.  
"Having a good time?" Jimmy asks Seth.  
Seth knows, because Jimmy has told him, that Jimmy has a hotel room, and that he's staying alone for this particular trip. Seth can tell Jimmy is trying to gauge where they stand for the night.  
"Yeah," Seth says, "Thanks for bringing me. Never been to a gay bar before."  
Jimmy and Seth work well together, and Jimmy is objectively attractive- he's stylish and clean, with wide, dark eyes and a lush, full mouth. He has eyelashes as long as a girl's, and a captivating way of talking with his hands. The thing that's holding Seth back isn’t a lack of interest, it’s just that he's never hooked up with a guy before, and he's not sure that he wants Jimmy to be the person to break him in, especially if it turns out that he doesn't like it.  
Jimmy grins at him.  
"You want another drink?"  
Seth takes a sip of his beer.  
"Not done with this one."  
"You wanna dance?"  
"Not yet. Maybe later."  
Like any successful tag team, they have good silent communication; Jimmy hears the things he isn't saying. He nods like he understands.  
"I'm gonna go dance. You mind?"  
Back in his own hotel room (that he's sharing with three other guys) Seth had chosen a black cap sleeve tee with a single charcoal gray stripe across the chest and a tight pair of dark wash jeans. He'd put on cologne and run some gel through his hair before he pulled it back. He looks fuckable like this. Guys are definitely gonna talk to him if he sits here like this, alone.  
He does not know yet that this will be the last time that he will ever wear this particular shirt; that it will sit in the bottom of a drawer for five years before Leighla suggests that he donate it or throw it away.  
"Nah," Seth says to Jimmy, "Have fun."  
Jimmy nods, downs the rest of his drink, and makes his way out to the dance floor. Seth is careful not to stare, but out of the corner of his eye he sees that it doesn't take Jimmy very long to find a guy who wants to dance with him.  
Seth is hyper aware of everything suddenly, from the pulsating beat of the music to the after taste of the beer in his mouth. Guys in various states of dress pass by the table, and some of them look at him. A tall, lanky blonde in fluorescent mesh shirt and a pair of ripped jeans winks at Seth as he walks by.  
Being alone in a gay bar is officially a little weird.  
Seth goes to the bar for another beer. He’s waiting for the bartender to come back when someone sits down on the stool to his left.  
“Magic Hat? That's a good IPA."  
The man is handsome- a late thirty something, with blue eyes, pale skin, and straight black hair. He's wearing expensive looking jeans, a blazer, and polished leather shoes.  
Seth nods.  
"Don't have it where I'm from. My friend suggested it."  
The man rests his arms on the bar-top, leaning forward with interest.  
"You're in from out of town?"  
"Yup."  
"Where are you from?"  
The bartender brings Seth his beer and takes away his empty bottle.  
"Iowa," Seth says.  
"You're a long way from home."  
"I'm here on business," Seth says. The man's eyes are really striking, with irises so light that they're almost completely clear. He's looking at Seth with interest.  
"What do you do?"  
"I'm a professional wrestler."  
Seth grins a little as he says it.  
The man looks surprised.  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
"That's a pretty unique job title." He scans his eyes over Seth, over his biceps. Seth lets him look.  
"What about you?"  
The man's lip twitches upward into something like a smile.  
"I work in finance."  
"Yeah?" Seth's hotel is in Brooklyn, but he’s seen a bunch of those guys over the last couple of days as he's drifted in and out of Midtown. They wear suits and ties and walk very fast. This guy's got some money, clearly, but he doesn't look like he belongs to that tribe.  
The man can see something in the look on Seth's face, because he smirks.  
"You're surprised by that?"  
"You don't seem the type."  
"Well I'm off the clock, as it were." He leans forward on the bar, steepling his fingers, "When I come here, it's nice to be myself."  
Seth grins around the top of his beer bottle as he takes a sip.  
"I hear that. I guess most people have characters they have to play at work."  
The man smiles. There's the smallest hint of warmth there.  
"Is that what you do?"  
"Have you ever seen any professional wrestling?"  
The man shakes his head once. His hair hangs down to just below his jaw line, and it looks appealingly soft as it falls back into place.  
"No, I'm afraid I haven't. You'll have to explain it to me."  
He holds out his hand for Seth to shake. His palms are smooth like a girl's.  
"Keith."  
"Tyler." Seth says, automatic, because it's the name he uses at work.  
It's a good ice breaker. Like most guys in the business, Seth has a good, rehearsed explanation for most of the weirdest things about wrestling- kayfabe, the characters, how hard they work to try to keep each other from actually getting hurt. Keith listens, his head resting on one hand, elbow propped up on the bar. He's clearly interested in Seth, even if he doesn't have any particular enthusiasm for what Seth is saying.  
"You must have to work out quite often to stay so built," Keith says. He reaches out, trailing a long, appreciative finger over the curve of Seth's bicep, just below the cuff of his sleeve. It's the most forward any stranger has ever been with Seth.  
It's good to feel desired. It isn't something Seth usually gets from the women he sleeps with, apart from the times when they're actually having sex.  
"Yeah," Seth says, "I spend a lot of time falling on my back, so being in shape definitely helps."  
Something in Keith's eyes flickers when Seth says that, and it takes him a moment to notice the double entendre.  
This guy definitely wants to fuck him.  
"I could tell you about what I do," Keith says, "But I fear you'd be impossibly bored. It's dreadfully boring to even me sometimes, I just happen to be good at it."  
His finger trails down the bare skin of Seth's arm.  
"Yeah," Seth says, "Can't say I was ever very good at math."  
He's nervous. He's not sure yet about this guy, but he's willing to be convinced.  
When he finishes his beer, Keith orders him another.  
"How long will you be in the city?"  
"Tonight and tomorrow. I fly home Sunday," Seth says. He's not actually flying home. Marek is driving up with his girlfriend to see the show, and then the three of them are driving back to the Midwest in shifts. Seth doesn't particularly want to explain this to someone who can afford to live in place where a $13 cocktail is considered "cheap".  
"Ah, pity," Keith says. He extracts a fancy looking electronic cigarette from his pocket. It's long and black with a polished chrome surface. "There’s _so_ much I could show you if you had more time."  
"Yeah. Too bad," Seth says.  
Seth recognizes this, the way you notice a familiar road sign a sixth of a mile back in your rear view mirror. He's done this to girls before; he's been the slightly older, more experienced guy who will take you by the hand and lead you to the bedroom. It's a weird thought; that he's gonna be the Girl this time around. Seth figures once he learns how to do it properly, he won't have to put up with being on the losing end of it again.  
Keith's cigarette lights up blue at the end, and it reflects up into his eyes. The vapor, when he exhales, smells vaguely like peppermint.  
He does tell Seth about his job. Seth focuses on the feeling of being buzzed. He watches Keith's mouth move, and listens to the lulling tones of his voice.  
Eventually they both finish their drinks.  
"So," Keith says, "It sounds like you have a long day tomorrow, and I wouldn't want to keep you out too late."  
He lays a hand delicately on Seth's knee.  
It's a classic player move- pressuring Seth into saying yes by implying that maybe he wouldn't. It works on girls too; the ones who feel like they have something to prove to you by sucking your dick.  
"No worries," Seth says. He's been working really hard lately. He's earned this. He's earned a half-drunk hook up with an attractive random stranger in a city half a country away from his hometown.  
Keith squeezes his knee. The contact doesn't set his skin on fire, but it does send a pleasant tingle up Seth’s leg.  
Keith leans forward.  
"Would you like to come back to my place?"  
The cab ride from the bar back to Keith's apartment is a blur in Seth’s memory. It's a place in the West Village, but he doesn't remember the address, or even what the outside of the building looked like in the dark. He remembers texting Jimmy and telling him that he was going back to the hotel early. He remembers that Keith didn't touch him in the car.  
The lobby of Keith's building is a smooth granite floor and white plaster walls, bathed in fluorescent yellow light. Keith's hand is steady and warm on the small of Seth's back.  
The ride up in the elevator is brief but tense. Keith stands beside Seth and doesn’t look at him. Seth keeps his hands in his pockets.  
Keith keys them in through the heavy oak door, and Seth follows him inside.  
It’s a loft- spacious and clean, with solid smooth floors. The bed is pushed back against the far wall, almost directly opposite the door, with frosted glass screens lining it on either side. Light from the windows spills in silvery wedges across the floor.  
There is a long moment in which Seth stands there, back to the door, staring straight ahead.  
Keith steps close to him, and Seth can feel his breath. Keith leans in, and Seth closes his eyes.  
Kissing a guy is not really what Seth thought it would be like. It’s supposed to be weird, and it is, but it’s the same kind of weird as a lot of the kisses he’s shared with women in the past. It’s kissing a stranger, which is to say, it’s new and exciting, but the basic mechanics are still pretty much the same. Keith's lips are smooth and his arms are warm through his jacket as they come up around Seth's shoulders. Seth lets Keith ply his mouth open with his tongue, and shudders at the way it sends a bolt of heat curling down his spine. It's not hot and heavy, not yet, but they’re definitely leading somewhere.  
When they come up for air, it takes Seth a moment to open his eyes.  
Keith is watching him. They're inches apart in the dark.  
"We should really undress you," Keith says. Seth steps back so he can peel off his own shirt. It’s a concession to both his enthusiasm and his fear; toeing the line straight down the middle of doing this and not doing it at all. Keith’s hands are warm when they come up against him, feeling their way over his ribs. Seth is half hard, but his head is fuzzy from the alcohol and his body doesn’t know what to do with it.  
Keith is suddenly busy stripping out of his own clothes, and Seth realizes he's probably supposed to follow suit. He stumbles a little as he does. He's definitely still drunk.  
The next part he remembers in patches.  
Seth goes down on his back on the bed, and Keith comes down on top of him, hot skin everywhere.  
Keith isn't entirely Seth's type- he's fit, but not methodical about it. There's a part of Seth that is a little disappointed by the softness of his stomach, compared to the lean smoothness that is Jimmy, or the neatly chiseled abs of a lot of the other guys he works with.  
Touching Keith still feels really, really good.  
Seth knows that the undertow of this heat is something bigger than the person he's doing it with; it’s just a staggering relief to have a male body that he's actually allowed to touch and explore after years of sporadic, feverish wondering about what it would be like. Keith groans appreciatively, and touches Seth everywhere in kind. There are hands on Seth's neck, his arms, his stomach, dragging over the planes of his muscles and making the heat build in his groin. Seth keeps getting surprised by sensations he doesn’t know how to anticipate. His breath hitches, and he tries to focus, but his head is still warm and blurry from the alcohol, and he's a little too overwhelmed to be entirely present.  
Keith kisses his way down Seth's body. Seth goes up on his elbows to watch him. His head feels heavy doing it, but he doesn't want to miss this. Being relished and devoured is part of what he wanted, what he was looking forward to when he decided to hook up with a guy.  
Keith meets his eyes and gives Seth a knowing, hungry look as he crawls down the bed.  
The first touch of Keith’s hand to Seth’s cock sends a jolt up Seth’s spine. Keith goes down on Seth, slowly, hungrily in the dark. Seth fists his hands in the comforter, holding his stomach taught as he tries to stay sitting upright. He has the strength to stay up, but his body begs him to lie back on the bed, and he acquiesces, pressing his head down into the pillow. Seth moans with relief when he finally comes.  
This is where the memory crystallizes; where Seth goes from remembering it to feeling it in his body.  
Keith is standing in front of him at the foot of the bed.  
There's the sound of a condom ripping open. Seth stares, frozen, breath caught in his throat.  
"Turn over," Keith says. His hands are tight on Seth’s hips, and he doesn’t let up until Seth obeys, rolling over, face down.  
There is lube, and it’s slippery and cold. Keith strokes it into Seth in a slow circle, sending whispers of pleasure up the base of Seth’s spine. Seth gasps when a wet finger slips inside him. He's touched himself like this a few times, though not often, for fear that he would continue to like  
it. It’s a little strange, having someone else in there, but it feels good too. Seth should speak, he really should, but he's trying so hard to let himself go, to zero in on it the way he does during practice, or during a workout.  
Keith gropes Seth’s ass, hard, as he starts to slide in. Seth’s not really expecting it to hurt, but it does, and he gasps. Seth’s never had another person inside of him, and it’s as dizzying a thought as the feeling itself. It’s so intense at first, and a wave of heat rolls up through his body, and then it’s just amazingly dirty, like he’s getting away with something illicit.  
There will be a day, several years later, when Seth actually remembers this, before he buries it again. Seth will be in a cross-fit session with a few of his gym friends, and he'll reach for a kettle bell. Something about the weight of it will send him through a time warp, and Seth’s whole entire body will freeze up with the sudden realization that this memory is something that happened; this it is something indelible that he can't escape. He will struggle during the rest of his workout to fight through the fatigue, and end it gasping on his back on the floor, chest aching. He will repress it again later, in the car on his long drive home, until it goes back down below the surface again.  
“You’re such a _good_ little slut,” Keith says, low and guttural. Everything about this moment is so sharp and clear to Seth as he feels himself get filled up, then emptied back out as Keith thrusts. It’s a slicker and bigger feeling than he expected, and Seth screws his eyes shut so can push back against it. It feels so good, like some kind of release he’s never imagined.  
Being fucked is really different from fingering himself. The angle is different, and the warm, kinetic feeling resonates up through his body in different places. Seth presses his face into the bed and tries to take it in. He wishes he were more sober so he could keep his thoughts in a straight line.  
It’s over before he fully processes what’s happening. Keith grips Seth's hips, hard, gasping roughly. He’s shaking, and that’s when Seth realizes that he’s coming. There’s sweat dripping down his hip and pooling onto Seth’s lower back. Seth's half hard again himself.  
When Keith pulls out, Seth can feel a wet heat that starts to dribble down his ass and onto his thigh. And that’s when he realizes that Keith wasn’t wearing the condom when he came.  
Sure enough- it’s there, on the bedspread, and when Seth reaches back he finds it with his hand. It’s damp from the lube, but not full.  
A cold feeling tunnels up through Seth, wiping out the last of his arousal.  
A complete stranger just came inside of him, without permission.  
This moment is the one that Seth re-imagines over and over; how he should have shouted or defended himself. He was strong enough, he reasons. Seth throws people at the ground for a living, no motherfucking way does he have an excuse for not knocking this asshole with his inadequate workout routine and his skinny thighs straight onto the fucking ground.  
He didn't.  
Keith draws a hand down through the sweat on Seth's back, leaning over him to kiss his shoulder.  
"That was great," Keith says, "You did really well for your first time."  
Seth ducks under Keith's arm, and rolls out from under him.  
"Can I use your bathroom?" He asks. Keith lounges back against the pillows and simply nods,  
pointing to the door on the far side of the room.  
Seth scoops his clothes off the floor as he crosses the room. His wallet and phone hang heavy inside the pockets of his jeans.  
The bathroom is lined with rows of flat, dark blue tile. The sink is a strange, elevated thing; a copper colored bowl with a long silver spout. The handles are rectangular and flat, and they turn almost too easily. It's a lot nicer than the white plaster and yellow tile of Seth's dirty apartment, and even more elaborate than the bathroom back at Seth's hotel.  
Seth cleans himself off with damp paper towels. He doesn’t want to shower here.  
Seth dresses. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror.  
When he reemerges, Keith is lounging against the pillows, reading something on his phone. He looks up as Seth starts to walk towards the door.  
"You can stay, you know," Keith says, "I don't mind."  
Seth shakes his head. He kneels down to put his shoes back on, lacing them up.  
"No."  
Keith sits up.  
"Well then, Tyler. It was nice to meet you."  
"Yeah," Seth says, "Thanks."  
The door clicks shut behind him on his way out.  
Trying to get back to Brooklyn via the subway is daunting enough that Seth takes a cab. He’s already over budget for this trip, but it’s his own fucking fault.  
It’s cold enough outside that Seth feels pretty sober by the time he gets from the curb to the front lobby of the hotel.  
The Bucks are both passed out when Seth gets back to the room. Rami is off somewhere, but it doesn’t really matter where, because he already won the best bed (the one that is the farthest away from the window) in a coin toss. Seth’s been relegated to the pull out couch in the corner, and he honestly doesn’t give a fuck. He somehow manages not to stumble over everyone’s luggage in the dark as he drags his backpack into the bathroom.  
Seth shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible.  
This moment, too, is trapped in the Mobius strip of Seth’s memory.  
Seth switches on the light. The bulbs are circular, arranged in a neat row above the mirror, like the lights in dressing rooms at the arenas where they perform.  
The whole room is different shades of white. Seth stares into the mirror. His expression is meant to be shuttered, but he can see the exhaustion in his own face. The light hurts his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT. Seth meets a guy in a bar, and they hook up, but Seth is not 100% sober. The sex starts consensually, but the guy he hooks up with removes the condom during sex without Seth's immediate knowledge/consent. Seth does not discover this has happened until after the guy has already come inside him. Seth blames himself for the incident, and has not yet fully processed its significance by the time the chapter ends. Also, Seth says a lot of very patriarchal things (mostly to himself) in this chapter that are upholding of rape culture.


	7. Unrehearsed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from an amazing song by Abandoned Pools off the album "Sublime Currency".

The vomiting stops, eventually. Seth breathes deep and stares at the ground.  
It takes Seth awhile to realize that Marek is kneeling beside him, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. Seth pushes him off, and gets to his feet.  
There’s dirt under his fingernails. The knees of his jeans are damp and cold from the ground.  
"Seth?" Marek asks. He sounds calm, the way he does when someone botches a move and needs to get stitched up.  
“I gotta get outta here,” Seth says. He doesn’t really know what he means, but Marek seems to understand, because he uses the button on his keychain to unlock the car.  
They drive half a block in silence before Seth can speak again.  
"I remember," he says. Marek has one hand on the steering wheel, but he reaches out and lays a hand on Seth's shoulder. His grip is oddly reassuring.  
Marek doesn’t ask where to go, just heads back to the highway and drives them straight to Seth’s own house. He calls Seth's mom from the driveway and lets her know that everything's fine and Seth just decided to crash at his place because it was closer to the bar, and he was exhausted. Seth knows his mom probably can tell something is up, but she's known Marek so long that he's like family, so she'll probably let it slide.  
It is deeply weird being home. Almost all of Leighla’s things are gone. Half the furniture is missing. Most of the pictures on the walls have been taken down. There are little traces of her in unexpected places; mustard and root beer that she likes sitting lonely in the fridge, alongside her plastic brita that probably needs a new filter. The sink in the master bathroom still smells like her hairspray.  
Marek doesn’t say a word, just brings in his backpack from the car and heads to the downstairs linen closet to fetch an extra blanket. He makes his way upstairs to the guest room.  
Seth doesn’t have space in his head to decide if he’s relieved that he’s not the only person in the house. He brushes his teeth, rinses with mouthwash, and goes to his own room to crash.  
The master bedroom still smells like her. He could strip the bed, but he’s so, so tired. It's sickly comforting to just lay back in the smooth, cool sheets like she's just out of town for the weekend somewhere, like things are normal.  
Sleep claims him quickly.  
The next day, Marek is still there when Seth comes downstairs, watching TV on the couch in the living room. He’s put coffee on, and the rich scent of it fills the house. Marek’s drinking some out of a Hulk Hogan mug that Seth's had since he was eight.  
Seth heads into the kitchen. The coffee is waiting for him in the carafe on the counter. Seth pours himself a cup and skips his usual sugar, suddenly eager for the bitterness of the taste.  
He joins Marek on the sofa and they sit, pajama clad, facing the TV. Neither of them are really watching it.  
They drink their coffee in silence.  
Eventually, Marek clears his throat.  
"Wanna go for a run?" Marek asks.  
"Yeah."  
The woods behind Seth's house have a path beaten into them that connects to a bike trail, leading deeper in. It's cold enough that they both keep their shirts on. Seth takes the lead, liking the certainty of knowing that Marek is there; that he has Seth's back. It’s a relief to be outside, heart pounding, breathing deep.  
They break at a clearing, far back enough that none of Seth’s neighbors’ homes are visible through the cover of the trees. The chill in the air stings Seth’s throat and turns his sweat cold, but it’s the first time since Mania that he’s felt this alive.  
Marek leans over, hands planted on his knees, gasping.  
Seth tosses Marek the water bottle from his bag, and Marek catches it, tipping it back to take a long, grateful swallow. He hands it back half full when he's done.  
"Seth," Marek says, still breathing heavy, "I’m sorry. I thought you _knew_. I thought you just didn't wanna talk about it."  
Seth hadn't put that together on his own, but he knows it's the truth.  
"It's not your fault," Seth says.  
“You didn’t remember it at all...until I brought it up?”  
“Yeah," Seth says. He leans back against a tree, and runs his hand absently over its rough, patchy bark. He's not angry at Marek, but thinking about last night makes his chest hurt, and the memory is there, waiting for him, like a weight. When he brushes up against it, a tight, sick feeling surges down into the pit of his stomach.  
"Man, it just sounds so Lifetime Original Movie,” Marek says. He approaches, laying a hand on Seth’s shoulder, “Is that normal? Should we get you to a doctor or something?"  
Seth’s pretty sure that what Marek means is a shrink. His dad made him go to one a few times, right after the divorce. It didn't go very well. Seth doesn't need a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit to sit there and tell him that his dad being a lying, cheating asshole isn't Seth's fault.  
Seth stares up at the canopy of branches and the gaps of pale, hopeful sky that stretch between. He breathes deep and closes his eyes, feeling his way through the nausea in his gut and the burn in his throat.  
"No," he says, at last, "I’m fine. I'll be fine."  
Marek stays most of the weekend like it’s no big deal. They play Nintendo and drink protein shakes and eat junk food. They watch an old WCW pay per view from when they were kids, and a dumb blood and guts horror movie that both of them are a little too squeamish to properly enjoy.  
Marek leaves on Sunday afternoon so he can head upstate for a show. He hugs Seth at the front door, and it’s not a fake, back patting "lets keep this from being too gay" hug; It's a real one.  
"Call me if you need to or want to," Marek says.  
He leaves, and then Seth is alone inside his own beautiful, empty house.  
Seth does push-ups and curl-ups on the incline bench in his room until his shoulders and stomach burn. He orders pizza and takes a shower while he waits for it to arrive. He uses his ipod and a pair of shitty Radio Shack speakers to blast music down the hall and into the bathroom.  
Being alone in his head is not something he wants right now.  
The second week off is better than the first. His head hurts less and his balance comes back. Seth goes back to his mom's while she's at work and picks up his stuff. He starts working out again at his favorite gym, and is relieved that he hasn't lost much strength in the interim. He calls WWE and makes arrangements to get checked out by medical so he can get cleared to work.  
He is as physically active as his body can handle during the day so that he will be tired enough to sleep straight through the night. It doesn't always work, but it helps.  
Thursday night, he has a sudden, random impulse, and he acts before he gives himself time to question it. Seth grabs a beer and the leftover Thai food from his fridge and settles in to watch the second half of Smackdown.  
It's been at least two years since Seth's watched any episode that he himself wasn't in, and even longer since he watched it at home on his couch like a regular viewer. It's the England leg of the European tour, and the crowds are into it. Cena walked away from Mania with the US title, and he has a stupid new patriotic tee shirt to match.  
The camera pans in on Ambrose as he paces around Cena in a slow, predatory circle.  
"You might represent America when we're back home, but I'd say that US championship is fair game here overseas."  
His voice sends a bolt of something bright and electric down the back of Seth's neck.  
"Then show me what you got," Cena says, squaring his jaw.  
The ref takes the championship, and Cena tosses his shirt into the crowd. Ambrose jumps up and  
down in place, weaving his head back and forth to pump himself up.  
The bell rings, and Ambrose leaps forward.  
Seth watches them trade punches; loose, easy give and take. Ambrose takes a shot at Cena’s jaw, and sells the recoil, drawing his hand back like the impact of the light graze hurt his fist. Cena comes back at him with an uppercut, and Ambrose sells the impact, stumbling backward like he’s dazed, blinking. He comes back at Cena with an elbow, and Cena whips him into the turnbuckle.  
Seth leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He's tense, all of a sudden, watching.  
Ambrose goes up on the top rope and gets really nice air on a wild looking elbow drop. Cena rolls out of the way, and Ambrose has to scramble to his feet, gritting his teeth.  
Seth has watched Ambrose do these moves thousands of times but for some reason right now, he can't look away. He wants to be there, wants the rightness of the moments when it's just him and Ambrose under the hot lights, making the audience hang on every bump. Seth thinks about when their eyes lock in the ring; the look Ambrose gives him right before he does something brilliant and totally off-book that fucks over the camera guys and makes the crowd pop like crazy. It's magic, every single time, and Seth misses it, he _wants_ it. Ring chemistry isn't entirely like lust and it isn't like romance, but the joy of it is such a thrilling, rare ache in his chest, bleeding into things he hasn't unfolded yet, things that he doesn't have words for.  
And there are...other things. Things about watching Ambrose that Seth can’t entirely ignore, that he doesn’t know what to do with. Seth doesn't normally do this, he's not this guy; he can let someone suck his dick without getting sentimental about it. But he can’t help it, he’s still holding on to every piece, every echo of the memory of being in that bathroom stall with Ambrose the night before Mania. Seth’s scared to let himself think about it too often because he doesn’t want to deal with it and he also doesn’t want to use it up. It’s still there, it’s always there, and it still turns him on like crazy to think of Ambrose on his knees for him.  
Everything that night felt like it was happening in slow motion, but everything was over _so fast_.  
Ambrose isn't a hot nameless stranger or a fuckbuddy or a one night stand. Ambrose is his friend, no matter what Roman says. They work together. Seth knows how much of his strength it takes to lift Ambrose over his head. He knows the width of Ambrose’s waist and the size of his hands. Seth knows the shape, the physicality of Ambrose with a thoroughness that stops just short of a lover’s familiarity, because he’s looked and he's felt, but he’s never really gotten to _touch_.  
And, _woah,_ that thought hits him all over, that _this whole time,_ Seth’s been watching, cataloging; the strong, clean lines of Ambrose’s body, the shape of his wry smiles, and the way the color of the light changes the blue in his eyes. How many times has Seth felt his stomach turn over when reporters have asked him to talk about their interpersonal relationship? How many times have he and Ambrose been sweaty and shirtless in the gym together, and Seth was just brimming with agitation at wanting those hands on him? It was there the whole time, and _oh fuck,_ he's so fucked up, _how the fuck did he miss that?_  
On TV, Ambrose gets swept up into an AA, and he kicks his way down out of it, landing on his feet. Ambrose ducks as Cena swings at him, and pulls him in, leading him down for a DDT. It's the version of Dirty Deeds in which Ambrose lands on his back, and Seth breathes in deep as though he himself is the one taking the fall. He's sitting on his sofa in Iowa and his stupid fucking heart is racing.  
The absence of Ambrose is a real and physical thing for him suddenly.  
Seth knows the look, the second when Ambrose remembers that oh yeah, there's an audience. Ambrose hams it up, all insanity and desperation as he gets Cena on the mat to wind him up into the STF. Commentary goes apeshit. Ambrose is sweating, gnashing his teeth as Cena struggles, reaching for the rope.  
Seth reaches for his beer and takes a long swallow. There’s this thought that he doesn’t entirely want to have; that night at the club, Ambrose had seemed so relieved, like he'd been _releasing_ himself from something by touching Seth, by getting him off. The thought that maybe Seth wasn't alone in this, in these things he didn't realize he was thinking and feeling, is bright and overwhelming.  
Seth snaps back in all the way when the match ends. Cena wins, of course.  
"Fuck," Seth says out loud to his empty living room.  
He turns off the TV.  
Seth strips off his shirt and pulls on his sneakers, lacing them up as tight as they’ll go. He pockets his keys in his jeans, pulls on a sweatshirt, and heads straight out his front door for a run in the dark.  
He doesn’t think; just goes where his feet lead him, along a route he knows well. He’s shuddering in the freezing cold, but it’s sobering somehow, and he needs to sweat this out. He lasts two miles this way before he drops to his knees, gasping for breath.  
The walk back is long, lonely, and quiet without his music or his phone.  
It is a very, very long time before he manages to fall asleep that night.  
In his dreams, Seth comes home to Iowa and his house looks the way it did when Leighla was still living in it. She’s not there anymore, he knows in his gut. Seth walks into his living room to find Ambrose sitting on his couch wearing jeans, a gray leather jacket, and a gray tee shirt that brings out the color of his eyes.  
“What are you doing here?” Seth says, because even though he doesn’t know he’s dreaming he knows it’s not right to see Ambrose in this setting.  
Ambrose gets up, and the room around them shifts and melts into something new. They’re standing across from one another in an empty stadium in the middle of a ring.  
“What are you doing here?” Seth says again, and Ambrose smiles slowly, sadly at him.  
“I’ve always been here,” Ambrose says. He sounds wistful.  
His eyes are blue-gray, like ocean water, and Seth can’t stop staring into them, and he wants to run away but his legs don’t work right all of a sudden.  
Ambrose reaches out and lays a hand, gently, along the side of Seth’s face.  
The absence of the contact is what ultimately startles Seth out of sleep.  
He’s hard, but he refuses to give himself release. He takes a cold shower instead.  
The easiest way to get cleared to work is to fly down to the Performance Center in Florida. The flight is almost six hours long. Seth gets to the airport at five, checks into his gate at six, and sleeps on the plane.  
Seth does his level best not to think about what he’s missed by not being on the European tour this year. It would have been amazing to strut for those fans with the newly-won WWE Championship hanging around his waist, but it's not as though anyone outside the company knew he was supposed to cash in, so no one is lording it over him that he didn't. It’s some small consolation also that Orton is apparently being punished for the bullshit he pulled at Mania by being forced to stay in the states for house shows.  
Seth's lived in several different cities over the course of his career, but for the three years he was there, he and Florida never quite got along. It's too hot, too humid, and not seasonal enough. The drive from the airport rental car lot to the Performance Center is a solid 45 minutes in traffic, and Seth blasts the air conditioner and cranks the alternative station on the radio.  
The exam itself is tense. The doctor studies his scans, and makes him do stretches to show his strength and flexibility. They take blood, and make him take a piss test.  
"We know you've had Vicodin prescribed, so don't worry about that" the doctor's assistant says as she hands him the cup.  
Seth's not worried. He never even finished his prescription. He's never been a drug person. Even if he was, everybody knows that the Wellness Policy is sort of like the box and Schrodinger's cat; it lets the fiction that wrestlers can't possibly be on drugs and the certain knowledge that many of them are exist simultaneously. You're only going to get in serious trouble if you're really fucked up on the job or if Vince doesn't like you.  
Seth has to wait for the test results, so he goes to one of the gyms to kill time. He's not really intending to get into anything heavy, just work the restlessness out of his limbs.  
At one end of the room, a bunch of the NXT trainees are arranged on colored mats, deeply engaged in some kind of yoga. Most of them are people Seth doesn't recognize who either haven't debuted or haven't gotten much TV time, but right in the middle, looking straight him through her downward dog, is Zahra.  
The sight of her makes Seth's stomach drop. He turns and walks casually back out the door.  
He's almost reached the other mat room at the end of the corridor when Zahra calls out to him.  
"Seth," She sounds pissed off.  
He turns, and she walks straight up to him. She’s messier than he's used to seeing her- workout clothes and minimal makeup, but still pretty in the way that makes him pay attention.  
"You know what the top Google results are if you search for my name?" She puts her hands on her hips, "Take a wild guess."  
"I didn't post the picture, Zahra," Seth says.  
"I’m not an idiot, Seth, I know you didn’t. You’re already a big superstar; there's no reason for you to advertise that you've got a side piece."  
Seth folds his arms over his chest. He's not good at fighting with girls. Guy fighting he can handle no problem, but girls usually dissolve into tears. Zahra's doing the opposite; her expression barely changes, but her eyes are dark and angry.  
"You're mad at me for something I didn't even do?"  
"No, Seth, I’m mad at you because your name is already next to my naked picture forever, even though, hey, it's been more than two months and you haven't texted or called. You didn’t even check in to see if I was okay."  
The flash of anger inside his body is brief but intense. He pushes it down. There's no point in getting emotional.  
"Excuse me if I've had more important things to worry about."  
"Like what?"  
"Like…my fiancée."  
"You mean the one who _dumped_ you?"  
"And my career. And Wrestlemania."  
"Your career? What about my career?"  
There are moments in the ring when Seth steps outside of himself and chooses the direction he wants a fight to take. No matter what anybody says about his drive or his athleticism, this kind of quick decision making is his greatest, most proficient art form; a finely honed gut instinct.  
Outside the ring, the consequences are farther reaching, but the shape of the choices is even clearer cut; be cruel, or be kind.  
He chuckles.  
"What career?"  
Zahra's eyes widen.  
She slaps him right across the face.  
It hurts.  
"My fault," she says, voice cool. Her eyes are glassy and wet. "You can't judge a guy by his potential." She balls her hands into fists at her sides. "Never speak to me again." She turns and stomps away, black hair swinging over her shoulder.  
Seth watches her go.  
He heads to the weight room at the other end of the building and puts himself through a punishing workout, the kind that makes him feel like his brain is in danger of melting out of his ears. He keeps his headphones in and turns the music up as loud as possible and doesn’t speak to anyone. Afterwards, Seth lies on his back, gasping, staring up at the ceiling. He’s trying so, so hard to keep his head clear, because he can’t make the time pass any faster.  
He showers and changes.  
His test results come back. The doctor pronounces him cleared to work.  
Seth collects his bag and gym clothes from the locker room. He needs to call Hunter as soon as possible.  
That's when Seth spots Ambrose and Roman at the other end of the hallway. They've clearly just come in from a workout, dressed in sweats and tee shirts, with gym bags slung over their  
shoulders. Ambrose still has his sunglasses on, and his hair is damp enough to stick to his forehead in all directions. At first, Seth can't tell if Ambrose notices him, but the instant that Ambrose does is painfully obvious. Ambrose stops walking, his whole body going still the way he did in the early FCW days when someone asked about his childhood, or when Seth asked him about Renee back in February. Roman stops just behind Ambrose, plainly confused, even after he follows Ambrose’s eye-line and realizes that this hiccup in the time-space continuum is somehow about Seth. Seth weaves his way around the other people in the hallway as casually as possible so he can make his way towards them.  
As if on cue, Ambrose recovers, and then they're walking towards each other.  
"Hey," Seth says. He's trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible but his heart is pounding in his ears.  
"Hey. Welcome back," Ambrose says. He pounds Seth on the shoulder.  
Seth opens his mouth to ask when they got back from Europe, but he doesn’t get the chance. Ambrose walks past Seth casually, as though nothing strange ever happened.  
Seth feels his stomach drop. The place on his shoulder where Ambrose fist-bumped him aches a little from the impact, even though it wasn’t a hard blow.  
Roman stops beside Seth. He looks perplexed.  
"Did you just get back??"  
"Yeah. What about you guys?" Seth says. He's forcing himself not to turn around to look at Ambrose’s retreating back.  
"Last night," Roman says. He gestures after Ambrose with a tilt of his head, "Did you guys have some kind of a fight?"  
Seth actually doesn’t know how to answer that. Instead he stares silently, dumbly, at Roman.  
Roman folds his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes.  
"Look, just man the fuck up and apologize for whatever you said, Seth. It’s Ambrose; he won't hold it against you."  
He smacks Seth on the shoulder and follows Ambrose down the hall towards the lockers.  
Seth spends twenty minutes sitting motionless in his rental car in the parking lot, baking in the oppressive Florida heat, before he can piece together that he needs to turn the key.


	8. Goin' Down Swinging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Fall Out Boy (but I suspect you know that by now.)

"How've you been?" Hunter asks.  
He's grinning as if they're friends, clapping Seth on the shoulder. Seth tenses under his grip.  
"Better, " Seth says.  
He takes the seat directly across from Hunter's desk. Seth's never liked this office. It's a luxurious version of the "middle school gym teacher" aesthetic; navy blue carpets, speckled gray floor tile, and austere cherry wood furniture. The walls are an impersonal white, lined with black and white photos of wrestling iconoclasts in sleek, industrial frames. If it weren't for the pictures of Stephanie and the kids on the edge of Hunter's desk, Seth would never know it belonged to him.  
Hunter leans forward, studying Seth. Seth sits straight-backed in his chair.  
"We think that it makes sense to get you started right away if we want to use you at Extreme Rules," Hunter says.  
Seth nods.  
"Yes sir."  
"I think it's probably good if we give you and Randy a break from each other," Hunter says. There's a hint of amusement in his eye, but Seth knows what this really means.  
Orton is clearly on the shitlist for his behavior at Mania, but he's too much of a draw for them to bench him. He's been stuck doing extra house shows and circling Roman, who, it should be noted, Orton seems to hate. Seth is likewise in the doghouse for doing a risky move without permission and botching it.  
In typical Vince style, they're both going to be punished.  
Seth feels his blood getting hot, but he folds his arms over his chest and tries to play it cool.  
He’s back at work. This is what he wanted.  
"So you want me to back off the heavyweight title?"  
"For now. In the meantime, there’s plenty of guys who could use a feud with a good heel after Mania."  
"Ambrose?" Seth asks before he can stop himself. He feels a cold kind of horror spread through his chest, intertwined with the adrenaline rush of the please please please.  
The edges of the placid smile on Hunter's face shift slightly.  
"Or Bryan," Seth adds, hoping the pause in between wasn't too long.  
What he should have said was nothing. It's gonna count against him that he had the audacity to ask.  
"We're gonna save those guys for later," Hunter says consideringly. He leans back in his chair, resting one of his hands on the desk, "You can work those guys anytime. We need to put you where you'll do the most good."  
Ziggler wouldn't be too bad. They're not friends or anything, but Ziggler is very athletic, and he will work anybody, no matter how he feels about you. Harper would be okay too; he's strong, and fast, and always puts on a good show. Kofi would be a stylistic clash, but they'd work through it, and Seth would undoubtedly be able to sneak in a few of his favorite aerial moves without sacrificing heel reactions.  
Seth's not about to give Hunter more guys to shoot down, so he keeps still and waits.  
And that's how he ends up working Bad News Barrett on Monday Night Raw.  
It's not that Barrett is a bad worker, or even a bad guy, but he is not now and never will be in Seth’s league. Worse yet, it seems pretty clear that Barrett himself is okay with that; He is not a lifer or a dreamer or a future hall of famer. He has a degree in Marine biology for fucks sake. Someday he will retire young and marry a normal girl with normal good looks and live in a normal house in fucking New England. Seth is so thoroughly insulted by the idea of working with him that he wants to scream.  
He's being tested, though, so Seth grits his teeth and he keeps his mouth shut. He's over the speed limit all the way up to Jacksonville; squaring his shoulders as he grips the steering wheel, buffered against the outside world by a cocoon of angry rock music.  
Barrett is a big guy, but he doesn't fight like one, which takes some of Seth's best heel moves off the table. It takes a long, frustrating hour of rehearsal to figure out how to strategize around the height difference.  
The high point of their match goes; Barrett's big boot kick, countered into a rollup, countered into a headlock, from which Seth gets loose and lifts Barret up to run him into the ring post like a battering ram. It’s easy, and lazy, and so far from Seth's best work that he feels robbed when the crowd pops for it. Seth can't stop himself from going extra hard on the curb stomp at the end of the match in frustration. He leaves a bright red boot print on Barrett's back, right between the shoulder blades.  
Seth is sweating and breathing heavily when he heads backstage after.  
"Nice work," Roman says, nodding at Seth as he passes by. Roman tends to favor matches that emphasize strength over pure technical skill; the exact opposite of Seth's personal preferences. As a former professional football player, it's not Roman's fault that he doesn’t have better taste, but Seth isn't in the mood to be polite to the fucking WWE World Heavyweight Champion right now.  
"Thanks," Seth says flatly, sneering. He tugs a hoodie over his shoulders and grabs a water bottle. Roman raises an eyebrow at him, but wisely lets it go.  
Seth showers and changes. He could head straight out now that his only segment is over, but he's still settling into being back, so he sticks around and watches the matches from backstage.  
Ambrose and Harper are building up to a match at Extreme Rules, and they look like they're having a fucking blast. Harper works good and stiff and Ambrose is _on_ ; eyes wild, making crazy faces. Harper delivers a clean belly to back suplex that lays Ambrose out, and scrambles in for the cover. Ambrose rolls out and to his feet, knocking Harper back down with a fast clothesline when Harper tries to stand. It's rough and powerful and the crowd starts screaming.  
Seth draws in a sharp breath. The epiphany that he's harboring some sort of feelings for Ambrose is not something he wants to deal with right now. Watching Ambrose work is supposed to hurt less now that he's back.  
It’s not supposed to hurt at all.  
When Ambrose walks backstage afterwards, the hot, anxious feeling in the pit of Seth's stomach floods upwards into his chest.  
For an overwhelming second, their eyes lock. All of the secret, friendly warmth that Seth's come to expect from Ambrose is missing; gone, or shuttered up away somewhere.  
"Good match," Seth says, hands tucked away safely in the pockets of his hoodie.  
"Thanks," Ambrose says. He sounds tired.  
He walks past Seth and down the hallway, off towards the lockers.  
The worst part of the three hour drive to Charleston is the way Seth's skin still feels hot all over, anticipating something that he clearly isn't going to get.  
The hotel is cold and lonely, and Seth sleeps badly. The dreams haven't been bothering him since he remembered everything, but he's still waking up angry and shaking, hands fisting in the sheets.  
In the morning he tracks down a gym in the area. It's not quite as high end as his place back home, but he still gets a good sweat in. The pretty girl at the counter looks at him like she’d give him her number if he asked. Seth could definitely stand to get laid, but the thought of investing the time to do it is more exhausting than exciting.  
It's three in the afternoon when they get their pages for Smackdown. It takes Seth thirty minutes to to learn lines for a terrible three minute promo that he would never have been subjected to a month and a half ago.  
Seth's post-injury angle is being the Authority's lapdog; putting out the troublesome faces before they can ruin Stephanie and Hunter's evil plans. It doesn't jive with the cowardly heel he's been playing for a year, but he has no choice other than to accept it.  
He's working Ziggler for the Smackdown taping. They get their block of rehearsal time, and it’s halfway over before it dawns on Seth that he's not giving it his full attention.  
"Dude," Ziggler says after a leg drop that Seth totally fails to sell, "You okay?"  
"Yeah," Seth says as he gets to his feet, "Fine."  
They do it again. Seth makes himself flop like a dying fish when he hits the mat.  
Craft opens up an hour later, and everyone breaks to go eat.  
There are index cards on the deli tray with calorie counts on them. Seth checks the calorie tracking app on his phone to make sure he's getting the right amount of protein.  
Ambrose is sitting with Roman at a foldout table on the far side of the room, and Seth instinctively goes to join them.  
Seth sits down across from Ambrose, who doesn't react; chewing his food and looking off into a space that Seth conveniently doesn't occupy.  
Roman's watching them both more intently than usual.  
A tense silence hangs over all three of them as they eat.  
They're all nearly finished when Roman shifts forward like he's about to speak. Seth preempts him as quickly as possible.  
"You working Orton tonight?" he asks.  
Roman looks at Seth a little suspiciously.  
"Yeah. Why?"  
"Have fun with that," Seth says, "He was in a mood when I saw him earlier."  
Seth hasn't actually seen Orton since yesterday's taping, but it's still probably true.  
Roman's expression suggests that he sees through this diversion.  
"Good," Roman says, "He'll be more aggressive that way."  
Roman gets up and heads to the trashcan on the far side of the room to throw out his empty plate. It's a classic Roman play; leaving Dean and Seth alone so they have no choice but to talk to each other.  
Ambrose's face shifts into steely resolve when Seth catches his eye.  
"So," Seth says. He doesn't know how he's going to finish that sentence. Or why the volume of his voice has suddenly dropped in half.  
"Yeah." Ambrose says. He gets up, stacking his empty water bottle on top of the scraps on his plate, "See you out there."  
And then Seth is alone, staring at the remnants of his jerk chicken.  
And really, what did he expect? It's not like he and Ambrose have ever been close, except for the one time that they were.  
The cold hardness of the concrete wall is almost refreshing when Seth presses his knuckles against it.  
He goes all out against Ziggler, and they hit in the center of the ring with double drop kicks. Dolph knicks Seth with his heel, and Seth straightens out for the drop too early. They both need stitches afterwards.  
Ziggler has a decent gash on his temple and wants to laugh about it, letting Paige take a picture of his bloody face for her instagram. Seth quietly seethes the entire time the doctor is sewing the two inch cut on his forehead back together.  
The house show on Wednesday is in Richmond, and it’s a six hour drive. Seth normally shares the longer drives with someone else in order to reduce the misery, but tonight he finds the idea of having to talk to anyone to be almost nauseating. As soon as the doctor lets him go, he sets off alone.  
He takes 95 north to avoid the endless construction on the 501. He stops to gas up at a Sheetz in Fayetteville when his back starts to burn from the falls he took during the show. His hands are sore from gripping the wheel. Seth buys a giant iced coffee that tastes like an ashen, watery death and cranks the air conditioner up to keep himself awake.  
He makes it to his hotel just as the orange of the sun is starting to creep up on the horizon. The woman behind the front desk looks at him piteously as she passes him his keycard.  
The house shows that finish out the week go by in a flash. He works Ziggler, then Barrett again.  
Ambrose still doesn't talk to him. Seth mostly avoids him as much as possible backstage. It's easier than dealing with the gnawing disappointment.  
On Saturday night, Seth drives straight from the show to the airport, and flies back to Iowa. He's home for thirty six hours and sleeps for twelve of them. He does his laundry, gets in a good workout, restocks the shakes and supplements in his pantry, then drives back to the airport to fly out to Philadelphia for Monday Night RAW.  
Seth washes his face in the bathroom at the arena. His eyes have dark circles under them. The blonde stripe in his hair has grown out at least three inches, far past the point where Leighla would normally have fixed it for him. He could bleach it himself, but his roots would turn orange. He could dye it back to brown, but he doesn’t know how to do it without possibly ruining the rest of his hair. He’s stuck with it in the meantime, like an ugly patch of purgatory.  
At rehearsal, he and Ziggler are both in the mood to mix it up. Seth does a sitout powerbomb he hasn't had in regular rotation since the independents and Ziggler adds his headstand to his rear headlock. It's a strange move; not convincing as an offensive maneuver, but showy enough to display Ziggler's athleticism.  
They break when they're both breathing a little too hard.  
"Wanna lay down the rest of it?" Ziggler asks, sitting back.  
Some guys practice every step of every match before they'll get anywhere near a camera. Jimmy used to make Seth do it back in the Ring of Honor days, before Seth could be trusted to know what he was doing. Ziggler's one of those guys who is comfortable with either or, so long as the big spots are clean during the show.  
"Nah," Seth says. "We'll do it on the fly." It's more exciting that way.  
Ziggler nods, wiping sweat from his forehead.  
"Cool."  
Philly’s a reactive, smark crowd, and Seth should be excited, but he just wants it to be over with.  
Seth's in the warmup room an hour before the show when one of the PAs tracks him down.  
"There's been a change," she says, flipping back pages on her clipboard, "You'll need to talk to Ms. McMahon."  
It's not unheard of for Creative to make changes at the last minute, but a half an hour before showtime is cutting it a little close.  
Seth pulls a shirt on and heads to the fourth floor to locate whatever conference room has been commandeered by the writers for the duration of the event.  
He finds it eventually. The room is long and rectangular, lined with swivel chairs. Most of Creative has taken off, but there are a few unlucky souls from the writing staff leftover, typing furiously on their laptops. There's the acrid stench of paper, and day old coffee, and sweat. Empty Dunkin Donuts cups are stuffed into the overfull trash can by the door.  
Stephanie sits at the head of the table reading something on her phone. Her fully made-up face always looks a little plastic; too smooth and  defined to be real. She's wearing a blazer over a green jacquard cocktail dress that matches her nails and shoes.  
"Seth," Stephanie says, smiling politely at him, "Thanks for coming."  
"Yeah," Seth says, "No problem."  
He pulls up a swivel chair and sits down. Most of the writers are too afraid of Seth to speak to him, thankfully, but one of them (a middle aged man with glasses whose name Seth has never bothered to learn) is watching him anxiously.  
"The word just came down from Vince that we're doing a Network exclusive pay per view at the end of next week," Stephanie says cooly.  
"Okay."  
"It means we need to shuffle the card around tonight. We're going to have Barrett and Ziggler work each other."  
Seth feels his stomach drop.  
"So I'm off the card?"  
"Of course not," Stephanie says evenly. Her smile is inscrutable, like a Cheshire cat.  
"Since you haven't had time to properly prepare, we think it's best to let you work with someone we know you're comfortable with."  
There's a glint in her eye when she says it. It sends a tingle down the back of Seth's neck.  
"Who-"  
 _Oh fuck._  
Seth doesn't have to turn around to know who he hears approaching from behind him, but he does anyway.  
"Did you, uh, need me for something?" Ambrose asks, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He's standing in the doorway like a guilty teenager who's been sent to the principal's office.  
The writer sitting across from Seth looks up from his laptop and glances back and forth between the two of them, wearing an excited, goofy grin. It's like the fucking nerds at comic con who wait on line for hours just to get him to sign something with a sharpie.  
"Thanks for coming," Stephanie says, as though they had any choice, "I was just explaining to Seth that the two of you are having a match tonight."  
Ambrose blinks once, taking this in.  
"What about my tag match?"  
"Roman's going to work Orton solo tonight instead," Stephanie says, "We're bringing back the King of the Ring pay per view as a network exclusive, so the card is getting shuffled around."  
"Okay," Ambrose says. He's not letting anything he's thinking show on his face, which is a pretty big tell if you know him well enough. Seth doesn't know what it indicates.  
They get new pages from the writers for their promos, and then they're dismissed  so they can prepare.  
They walk side by side down the empty hallway.  
"So," Ambrose says, clearing his throat,  "No rehearsal."  
They stop at the elevator. Ambrose presses the button to go down.  
"You could do your corner powerbomb spot, and I can counter from the rope. Maybe work in a hangman stomp."  
"Sure," Seth says. Ambrose has good instincts for this sort of thing.  
The elevator doors open, and Seth follows Ambrose inside.  
"Armbar, countered into a headlock to start off? Like we did in Japan?"  
The doors slide shut. They’re alone, and they have fifteen minutes till the opening segment of RAW goes live on the air.  
Seth’s closest to the door, but he doesn’t press the button for their floor.  
Something must show on Seth’s face, because Ambrose juts his chin up suspiciously.  
"Seth-" Ambrose says. He reaches for the console. Seth blocks him, stepping into his path.  
"You don't talk to me anymore," Seth says, low and sharp in the quiet. His throat feels dry.  
Dean lowers his hands to his sides, like he's uncertain what to do with them.  
"You don't look at me anymore," Seth says, stepping forward. Ambrose smells really good; a familiar cocktail of shampoo, aftershave, and sweat.  
Ambrose exhales slowly. The resolute lines of his face soften a little.  
"I still look at you," he says, quietly. There's a husky edge in his voice; some combination of a brush off and a dare.  
Seth's heart is pounding. He wants Ambrose closer.  
He doesn't know how to get words around it, so instead he leans in, slow. Ambrose lets him, watching carefully. The last inch before Seth presses their mouths together feels like a small eternity.  
He’s felt so _alone_ these last few weeks, and for a desperate, panicky moment, he's alone in this too, waiting. Then, with the smallest movement, Ambrose meets him there; parting his lips and gently, carefully, kissing Seth back. It's slower than Seth wants, but it’s hot and consuming, and Seth wants to chase after it. Dean scrapes his teeth over Seth's lower lip, and the shivery, nervous ache in Seth's chest bursts into hunger, kicking off a chain of sparks in his body.  
He wants to _touch_. Seth’s splays his hands over Dean’s waist, feeling the planes of warm, solid muscle through his tee shirt. It's hot, and good, but Dean pulls back, breath hitching sharply.  
“Seth,” he says softly, and Seth shudders.  
There’s a big, warm hand on Seth’s pec, and then, Ambrose is pushing at him, stepping back out of Seth’s grip.  
Seth opens his eyes. His skin is screaming at him, cold from the loss of the contact.  
Ambrose retreats, slouched back against the elevator wall, hands in his pockets.  
“We can’t do this now,” Ambrose says. He sounds far away. The steely look in his eyes means that nothing Seth says will be persuasive enough.  
It's a little like being kicked in the stomach.  
“Fine,” Seth says.  
He turns, facing away from Ambrose, and presses the button for the first floor.  
If Seth had expected Dean to say anything else on the way down, he would have been disappointed.  
Seth bolts from the elevator without looking back.  
His chest hurts, but he has to focus.  
He heads to the lockers and quickly changes into his ring gear. His hands are shaking.  
It’s the adrenaline, Seth tells himself.  
He buys a water bottle from the vending machine in the hallway, and leans over a trashcan as he dumps the entire thing over his head. It's ice cold, which is what he wanted, and something about it snaps him back to reality in the right way. His mouth burns and his heart is beating way too fast, but he's ready.  
Seth flips his hair back and heads to gorilla.  
Stephanie is "running" RAW this week. She cuts a smooth, vicious promo about Ambrose and Reigns crossing the Authority by winning their matches on Smackdown, and how they need to be "neutralized". Seth's entrance music interrupts her as she informs Hunter that it's his job to find a way to eliminate them so the Authority can take back the World Heavyweight Championship.  
Seth strides down the ramp alone, Money in the Bank briefcase in tow. The crowd pops for him; girls scream louder than their boyfriends and little kids gasp and clutch at their parents, staring at him in awe. When Seth was in the Shield he used to bump fists with people in the aisle rows, but he's a heel now, and it’s his job to be ruthless and untouchable.  
His neck and shoulders are wet from his hair, and his tee shirt is sticking to his collarbone. The warmth from the lights feels good when he climbs into the ring. A PA surreptitiously hands him a mic.  
"Hold up a minute, hold up a minute" Seth says, gesturing with a hand, "I’m the one who has a score to settle with Dean Ambrose after we were interrupted at Hell in a Cell. I'm the one who can cash in on Roman Reigns whenever I want to claim the WWE World Heavyweight Championship."  
Stephanie rolls her eyes at him.  
"And what makes you think you've earned the right, Seth? This is our ring. We decide who the contenders are."  
Seth steps closer, getting in Stephanie's face, "Roman Reigns and I were once tag team champions together. I know him like the back of my hand. And nobody that you and your husband can trust is gonna be able to take out Dean Ambrose except me."  
Hunter smiles in the way that means he's humoring you, despite your insubordination.  
"And why are we supposed to think we can trust you, Seth?"  
Seth usually doesn't have to dig that deep to play scared. Sometimes he goes back in his head and lets himself remember the day he bought his house, or the time when he was nine and his Dad caught him and his brother going through the  secret box of Playboys in the basement. He just needs a memory of one, pure bolt of visceral fear to come back down into his body so it spreads all over his face.  
Tonight, unbidden, he thinks of Ambrose in the elevator, and it does the trick.  
"I have done everything you've ever asked of me," Seth says desperately, "I dismantled The Shield, the most powerful faction in the entire WWE to prove myself to you."  
The crowd boos loudly. Seth shouts over them.  
"I won the Money in the Bank briefcase. I took out Bad News Barrett and Dolph Ziggler."  
Ambrose's entrance music kicks up, and the crowd screams. Seth makes a show of looking tense.  
Ambrose is in jeans and a black tank shirt, wet hair plastered messily to his head. The line of his shoulders is taught as he stalks down the ramp.  
Seth peels his shirt off over his head and draws in a breath. His chest feels tight.  
"You’ve got a real selective memory, Seth," Ambrose says. He pulls himself up onto the apron, and ducks smoothly under the ropes.  
"I seem to remember that you're the one who betrayed me," Ambrose says, looking straight at Seth.  
Stephanie steps between them, sneering at Ambrose as though she'd happily set the whole building on fire just to incinerate him.  
"How _dare_ you come here uninvited," she snaps. Ambrose backs up a step, mouthing a wide eyed innocent "Who, me?" like they're in a 1950s sitcom. He shifts back into seriousness just before the moment stops being funny, and catches Seth's gaze over Stephanie's shoulder. His eyes are glittering with something hot and excited, and it makes Seth's stomach do a stupid flip. Even with Stephanie and Hunter and a crowd of twenty thousand, holding his gaze feels strangely intimate.  
Hunter places a protective hand on Seth’s forearm in foreboding. Seth strains against it.  
"Let me at him," Seth says. He’s supposed to plead with Hunter with false humility and lots of heel shifty-eye, but there's no way he's gonna look away from Ambrose right now.  
Ambrose mouths at him, "Let's go." He's grinning.  
"Son," Hunter says to Seth in his best commanding dad voice, "You're going to regret this. You don't want to do this now."  
" _I_ really do," Ambrose says. He drops his mic and pushes past Stephanie to swing a wild punch at Seth, a page and a half ahead of the script. Seth can see out of the corner of his eye that Hunter looks pissed, but he and Stephanie scramble to get out of the ring. Seth goes down hard on his back when Ambrose tackles him, and the impact is somehow reassuring, like it's pulling him into orbit. Ambrose makes a show of fake-pummeling Seth into the ground, but after a beat he hesitates, meeting Seth's eyes as he draws his fist back. Seth takes the cue, locks his knees, and rolls them over so he can scramble backwards to get to his feet.  
Their eyes meet again, and then they're rushing at each other, locking up forcefully. Ambrose lets one hand go, and moves in fast for an armbar. Seth lets it happen, bending and sinking down, but thrashes like he's fighting it. Ambrose knees him in the gut before he can get free. Seth gets his feet under him, wincing in "pain", and Ambrose lets him go.  
Seth lunges, and he's halfway setup for a headlock driver before he remembers that this is the spot Ambrose suggested in the elevator.  
He's still having that thought, laughing to himself, the second they both hit the mat.  
Seth goes for an early pin. Ambrose is hot and solid under him and kicks out at two, arcing off the mat like a wave.  
There's a ref in the ring with them now - there must have been a bell at some point, but Seth doesn't remember hearing it.  
Ambrose gets up, and Seth clotheslines him back down, smirking. They barely make contact, but Ambrose sells the fall, rocking upward in pain. Ambrose sticks a leg out and trips Seth to the mat, rolling him over, twisting their legs together. Seth's not sure what hold Dean's doing, but he trusts those hands and goes with it. He ends up in a figure four, and he knows Ambrose is smirking before he can even see his face. Seth groans, and "fights" it, coming up after one when Ambrose gets his shoulders down. The audience cheers.  
Seth surges forward, fists swinging, and Ambrose rewards him with a perfect sell, playing punch drunk. They release, and Seth gets to his feet unsteadily, stumbling to show the crushing aftereffects of the hold.  
He's expecting it when Ambrose charges him from behind, and Seth turns just in time to nail him with a superkick. It's more aggressive than he would normally get when his opponent is only three quarters of the way in view, but it's Ambrose, so the gamble pays off. Ambrose takes the inertia and stumbles back to the rope, and doing his rebound lariat off the middle, like the trailer park trash from whence he came.  
The crowd gets excited, chanting "THIS IS AWESOME" and standing on their feet.  _Fuck rehearsal,_ Seth thinks. He catches Ambrose around the waist, and Ambrose goes up so Seth can suplex him. Suplexes weren't heel moves for Seth when he was coming up, but post-Brock he always gets heel reactions from it. He has time- maybe six minutes left including the commercial, so instead of going in for the pin, Seth stands upright and stomps down on Ambrose, kicking him. He pulls, of course, but Ambrose still takes a hit on his shoulder that's probably going to bruise.  
Ambrose sits up on his knees, playing dazed, grabbing at Seth's waistband to steady himself. He leans forward like he's struggling to stay up, pressing his forehead against Seth's hip. Some of his hair brushes against Seth's stomach, warm and damp with sweat.  
Seth grabs Ambrose by the arm and yanks him up to make him get to his feet. Ambrose meets his eyes, sweating and breathing hard. Seth finds what he’s looking for and sees equal acknowledgement there; that _yes, okay,_ they've both still got plenty of gas in the tank.  
A gut punch sets them up for Seth’s corner powerbomb, and Ambrose goes smoothly up onto Seth's shoulders. Seth could toss him, but he doesn't have the ring awareness right now to make sure Ambrose isn't going to land bad, so he runs them halfway across the ring, pushing  Ambrose directly into the turnbuckle. Ambrose snags the top rope and pulls himself up.  
Seth climbs onto the middle rope, and they struggle, punching at each other. It doesn't feel like acting as much as it usually does, but it’s working; there’s no awkward hesitation, and the crowd is into it.  
And then, out of nowhere, Ambrose reaches down and rakes his back, slowly, nails digging in, little trails of fire spreading through Seth's skin in their wake.  
It's a cheap power play; _why would I waste a punch on you when just my fingernails are enough._  
Seth can't see Dean's face, and he doesn't want to. He’s too busy trying not to think about the fact that Leighla used to scratch him in bed. The memory of that, of how connected to her, and how _possessed_ by her it made him feel, is. Is.  
Seth lets Dean shove him so he can drop back to the mat. He pushes off the turnbuckle on the way down, rolling into the fall to put a little distance between them.  
It doesn't last long, because Ambrose catches his eye breathlessly, and sets up for an elbow drop.  
Seth lets his muscle memory take over, willing himself to flex and breathe so he can take it when Ambrose crashes down on top of him.  
Ambrose rolls him over so he's face down,and Seth thrashes under him wildly liked a caged animal. Ambrose crawls on top of him, and gets an arm under Seth’s neck for a headlock.  
It turns out that it's not a headlock, though, because Dean presses Seth's head down into the mat, leaning in to close his teeth over the top of Seth's ear.  
The sensation of it shoots straight down the side of Seth's neck and through his body, all the way down into his groin.  
Rage and arousal and embarrassment crash down over Seth like a tidal wave.  
Seth gets an arm under them, and rolls them over, slamming Ambrose into the mat.  
Dean’s wide eyes are dark, and warm, and accepting, and Seth has never, ever hated anyone or anything so much when he throws the punch that breaks Dean’s nose with a brutal, satisfying crack.


	9. Autoclave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a song by the Mountain Goats.

The leather of Seth's glove is dark and wet.  
The ref is shouting and waving his arms.  
Seth draws back again. He's shaking.  
  
He swings. Ambrose catches hold of Seth’s wrists. Seth strains, trying to break the grip, but Ambrose holds on, twisting his hips, rolling them over so Seth goes down, back flat on the mat.  
It's the strangest, most terrible relief to have someone made of flesh and bone to struggle against.  
Seth lifts his head, trying to get his shoulders up. He tries to kick out, but Ambrose spreads his knees out to keep Seth's legs pinned. His grip on Seth's wrists is unrelenting.  
  
Dean’s nose is leaking a river of blood down his face. He needs medical attention.  
"Come on," Dean says, low and guttural. His eyes are dark.  
Blood drips down, splattering onto Seth's chest.  
"Fuck you," Seth says.  
"Come on," Dean says again, louder this time so the mics will pick it up.  
He pushes Seth down, harder, till his shoulders are flat. Seth is shaking all over, still pushing back against Dean’s grip, but he closes his eyes and waits for the count; one, two, three. The bell sounds.  
  
Ambrose is already out of the ring and walking back to the ramp by the time his music starts playing. Seth watches him retreat, flanked by the ringside doctor.  
  
Then Seth's in the middle of the ring, alone.  
Seth rolls out of the ring and walks up the ramp to gorilla in a daze. He feels strange and untethered, like his body is on some kind of autopilot.  
He can feel each second passing as though it's being ripped out of his chest.  
Backstage, people are staring at him, and Seth knows he should care about that, should react to it,  
but it's not getting all the way through to him somehow.  
He finds a bench in one of the corridors, a few rooms down from where the divas go to get their hair and makeup done. He sits, peeling his gloves off. Shirtless in the air conditioning, Seth shivers and looks at his hands. Something about them looks different in the florescent lighting; foreign and familiar all at once.  
He recalls back in February, when Dean had sat across from him on the bathroom floor in his hotel room, and Seth had been too hungover to make him leave. Dean's intrusion had been strange and endearing; The planes of his face were yellow and pale in the artificial light.  
Dean.  
Seth has to find him.  
Seth skips his shower, pulls his damp hair back, and changes back into civvies at double speed.  
He comes out of the locker room, and Hunter is there, broad and hulking in his gray suit.  
"That was a nasty botch, son," Hunter says, clapping Seth on the shoulder, "You okay?"  
"What?" Seth says, because his brain is a second behind his body tonight.  
Oh.  
_Botch._  
_Oh._  
"I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt anyone," Hunter says smoothly.  
_I meant to, but I didn't mean to,_ Seth wants to say. It doesn't make sense, but it's still true.  
They're not alone in the hallway; A cluster has formed nearby- Alicia, Paige, and Natalya- all pretending to be very interested in something else.  
Seth holds Hunter's gaze.  
"Yeah," Seth says, "I’m fine. I just wanna find Ambrose."  
"Sure, go check on your friend," Hunter says, pounding Seth on the shoulder, "And, listen, even the best of us make mistakes now and then. Don't beat yourself up over it."  
He lifts his cell phone to his ear as he walks away.  
Seth has no choice but to walk past the gaggle of divas if he wants to look for medical, so he charges straight ahead without so much as an 'excuse me'. Paige and Alicia move aside to allow him through, and Natalya gives him a very serious look that's motherly and judgemental at once.  
Seth avoids their eyes as he passes. Fuck them. He doesn’t need their gossip or their worthless opinions.  
He knows that medical is always on the same level as the stage, just in case they need to rush someone off to a hospital and don't have time to wait for elevators. If he combs through the whole floor, he can find the signs.  
Heart pounding in his ears, Seth’s not paying attention when he turns a corner and crashes directly into Roman.  
Roman is naturally about a half inch shorter than Seth, but he's got his boots on for the show, so he's right at Seth's eye level. He's not on for another three segments, but he's in his gear, and his hair is dry.  
"Woah, where're _you_ going?" Roman asks, eyebrow raised.  
"None of your business," Seth says curtly. He tries to sidestep Roman, but Roman shifts over to block his path. Understanding crosses Roman's face suddenly in a way that makes Seth’s stomach twist.  
"Seth, come on." Roman says.  
"Get out of my way."  
"Seth, don’t. Give him some space," Roman lays a hand on Seth's shoulder; a serious, almost paternal gesture.  
Seth isn't entirely over the fact that Roman tried to baby him right after his fall at Mania, and he definitely isn't in the fucking mood to let the World Heavyweight Champion tell him what to do right now, especially when it comes to Ambrose. He rolls his shoulder out of Roman's grip.  
"Don't touch me," he snaps, narrowing his eyes.  
Roman steps forward like he does when he's playing at intimidation in the ring.  
"Seth, come on. Walk away."  
"Let me through, or I'll _make_ you," Seth says. It’s his flattest, meanest heel voice, and he's not expecting it when Roman laughs bitterly, shaking his head.  
"You are one of the most talented motherfuckers I've ever seen, but man, you are such a selfish piece of shit, Seth. I've never known why Dean puts up with you, and I don't care. Just leave."  
The prospect of a fight burns through the fog of numbness in Seth's head, releasing some of the anger underneath.  
"Fuck you, Roman," Seth grits out,"You're _nothing_ compared to me and Dean. You couldn't even take a bump when I first met you. You rode our coattails into the spotlight, and you haven't even earned your place here, let alone the right to tell me who I can and can't talk to."  
"Whatever,” Roman says, but there's a flicker of hurt in his eyes behind the solid blue of the contacts.  
"Yeah, 'whatever', how articulate, shut it down so you don't have to face the truth instead of fighting me like a _man_. You were _never_ someone we could trust out there."  
Seth shoves at Roman's chest, one handed. Roman doesn't budge.  
"That’s not true,” Roman says evenly, “But even if it was, your trust isn’t worth a lot to me right now."  
The calmness in his voice is infuriating.  
"I guess you don't need anything else if Vince wants to suck your-"  
_"Seth."_  
It's Stephanie McMahon; her long, shiny hair streaming out behind her like a battle flag as she descends upon them. A small crowd has amassed at the end of the corridor, and Seth looks up to see the furtive glances of many of his coworkers. Ryback is openly staring, mouth stupidly agape; Ziggler and Kofi are wide eyed, but have the courtesy to keep the rest of their faces mostly in check. At the far end of the hall, Orton lurks in the shadow of one of the concrete pillars; massive arms folded across his chest as he stares at the floor.  
"Break it up," Stephanie says sharply, and there's a terrifying downward curl at the edge of her mouth, "Or neither of you is going to like the consequences."  
Roman takes a slow, steadying breath.  
"Yes ma'am," Roman says apologetically. Roman is no pushover, but he's reliable in his deference to the corporate brass. He turns his gaze to Seth, and there’s something contemptuous around the edges of his eyes, but it’s not enough to get him in trouble.  
Seth's hands are shaking as he slides them back inside the pockets of his hoodie.  
"I wasn't gonna-"  
Stephanie holds up her hand to silence him. "It's not the time or place for you to argue with me, Seth. Go to your hotel and get some rest."  
"But-"  
_"Now,"_ she says, and Seth has enough self preservation instinct to know that non-compliance could probably cost him his job.  
"Fine," Seth declares loudly. Fuck them. He storms off to the lockers to get his bag.  
There's a 30 gallon trash can just inside the entrance to the parking garage, and Seth kicks it until it topples over, spilling putrid garbage everywhere. A river of cloudy, long discarded soda flows freely from the brim towards a grate in the asphalt. Seth walks straight through it as he heads to his car, crushing plastic wrappers and stiff cardboard under his feet.  
He tailgates aggressively during the thirty minute drive to the hotel. He’s trapped in this city overnight for the Smackdown taping, and it's late enough that most of the local gyms are closed. The hotel gym is under-equipped for real athletic training, and he could go running, but it's a bad idea this close to the highway at night.  
Seth sits down on the bed and scrubs his fingers back through his dirty hair, digging his nails into his scalp. The raw, desperate ache inside him isn't going to subside if he does nothing.  
The mini bar selection is underwhelming in size and scale, and room service doesn’t offer anything hard, so Seth heads for the the hotel bar. He does his best not to look at himself reflected in the polished chrome of the elevator.  
The bar attached to the lobby is actually nice enough that he looks out of place in jeans, but his platinum credit card makes up for it. Four shots of Johnnie Walker Black later and he's got a warm buzz working its way through his chest. He buys a full bottle and takes it back to his room.  
Seth sits on the bed, legs crossed, and takes slow, careful mouthfuls from the bottle in the dark. The streetlights outside cast a dull orange glow through the gap in the curtain, and Seth sets the bottle down on the carpet to see what it does when the light hits the glass. The alcohol is a prism  
that fragments his feelings into bright, colorful pieces; scattering them, expanding their reach.  
He broke Dean’s nose.  
He broke Dean’s nose and he _kissed_ Dean. It was short and raw and perfect, and Dean had rejected him, _immediately_ after kissing him back.  
And, oh yeah, Seth's brain helpfully reminds him, there was that one time he had sex with a guy and it was so bad he made himself forget it entirely for the better part of six years. It was so bad that remembering it made him throw up by the side of the road.  
An ugly bolt of dread curls low and painful in his stomach.  
Seth has built an exceptional career by charging relentlessly into year after year of excruciating grind, taking every opportunity to prove himself as a wrestler, as a man. In the ring or in the gym, through jetlag and exhaustion and the miserable poverty of the days before he'd made a name for himself, there has never been a challenge that Seth couldn't conquer, that he couldn't power through or sweat out.  
Seth stares at the bottle on the ground. It's two thirds full.  
He doesn't know how to move forward. He doesn't know how to seize this moment, and he doesn't know how to step back and let it happen.  
Possessed, suddenly, by a course of action, Seth reaches for his phone. It lights up obediently, and he types as deliberately as he can. His fingers are too loose from the alcohol, and the words hurtle across airwaves and time and space before he can give himself a chance to think.  
He lies back on the bed, waiting.  
The dark ceiling of his hotel room is familiar in its strangeness.  
He breathes and waits. One, two minutes.  
Three.  
It's cold. He's sweating.  
Four.  
Still nothing.  
He picks up the phone and types again. Each time he presses send he feels angrier and more pathetic, but he doesn't know what else to do.  
He feels so fucking awful and desperate, waiting for a reply. It takes considerable effort not to indulge the urge to toss his phone against the wall.  
Seth lays on his back in the blackness, breathing heavy.  
He closes his eyes. His heart is racing. He doesn’t realize that dark, heavy sleep is coming for him until the alarm in his phone is blaring and it’s already passed. There’s sunlight peeking over the tops of the curtains, and the room is cold. Seth sits up. His head hurts, and he’s dehydrated. He wavers on his feet as he makes his way to the bathroom. He feels nauseous.  
The water pressure in the shower is better than the last few hotels he’s stayed in, and he hangs his head under the water. He opens his mouth, allowing himself the helplessness of drinking from the spray. It’s eleven. Checkout is at noon, and he has to be at the building for Smackdown at three. He stays in the shower for ages, until his fingers wrinkle and his body is used to the water. He’s standing naked in the white tile bathroom, making an effort not to gag around his toothbrush when it occurs to him to check his phone. He has read receipts on. Dean saw his messages, but never texted him back. Seth gets dressed. He bumps his ankle on the bottle of scotch on the carpet while he packs his things. He kneels down and picks it up. Seth strokes his thumb over the curve of the bottleneck.  
Dean likes this brand. He wasn't thinking about it when he chose it last night.  
Taking a heavy glass bottle in his luggage is more hassle than it’s worth, so Seth pours the rest of it down the shower drain. The smell of the dark amber liquid turns his stomach, and he has to hold his nose to keep from vomiting into the tub. The buffet in the executive dining room at the hotel is somewhat lacking in real nutrition, but it's free for another half hour, and Seth can wear sunglasses and slouch to avoid being bothered. He leaves his bags at the front desk, has two strong cups of coffee, and pretends to read the sports page from the local paper while he munches on a bagel. Being hungover is the exact opposite of being drunk; like all the feelings inside him are a muted, disgusting puddle that he has to slog through. His head is throbbing, and all the colors and noises around him are too harsh and too vibrant in the light.  
Cesaro spots him from across the dining room, and they nod politely at each other. Seth sort of hates him for looking so fresh and perfect. Nobody should be that clean all the time.  
In the parking lot, Seth watches his breath mist in the air for a moment as he waits for the valet to bring him his rental car. The cold is soothing on his aching forehead. In the car, Seth eats three bananas that he swiped from the hotel, and drinks half a gallon of water as he drives to the nearest crossfit box. If he doesn't take hydration breaks, he could hurt himself when he works out.  
Seth grits his teeth through his workout and paces himself; pushing for the the burn in his muscles till it matches the pain in his head.  
He finishes, gasping, forty five minutes later. He makes it to the trashcan in the locker room before he finally needs to throw up.  
Seth wipes his mouth in a daze. He brushes his teeth in the shower with the little travel toothbrush from his gym bag. His ears are ringing. He needs to put some nutrients back in his body if he's going to perform tonight.  
Feeling hungry and nauseous is a shitty combination. Seth finds a nearby Vietnamese take out place with his phone, and gets two plastic tubs of Chicken pho. Seth's never really liked the stuff, but he has a weirdly vivid memory of getting some in London the morning after getting trashed to celebrate a good show. It's a good hangover cure-  replenishing his water and salt and potassium. He has to pull tiny  chicken bones out of the soup with his hands, stacking them in an oily pile in a paper napkin on the passenger seat of the car. He gets to the building at two thirty. There are fans already pressed up against the chain link fences around the parking lot, waiting to catch glimpses of him. Seth pulls his hoodie up over his head and waves robotically, grateful that the blackness of his sunglasses shields him from camera flashes. Inside, Seth stashes his bag in the lockers. He takes two aspirin, drinks more water, and eats a plate of under-seasoned chicken wings from craft. Other people start to arrive. Seth is in the locker room, trying to decide which shoes he wants to wear under his kick pad covers when Roman shows up. Ever the professional, Roman nods at Seth, politely, but doesn't make eye contact; choosing a locker at the opposite end of the room. Seth squares his shoulders and stares straight ahead to hide his relief.  
He's wandering the hallways when one of the writers finds him- a lanky white guy in his thirties with long messy hair and a thick beard. He takes a shooting script from a folder, and hands it to Seth.  
“Thanks,” Seth says. The guy nods and walks off to find someone else.  
Seth flips through the top pages of the script. Dean isn’t on the call sheet, which means they're probably giving his nose time to heal before Sunday. A pang of something heavy bubbles up inside Seth's chest; a mixture of guilt and relief.  
It’s him and Kane against the Usos, because of course they’re not going to let him wrestle solo tonight.  
Seth finds the pages relevant to him and flips the top sheet back.  
He runs through the script a few times with his headphones on, mouthing the words to himself to get them under his tongue. He finds a quiet hallway and runs through it aloud.  
He should find the others and go through it so their reactions on camera will be better, but there's a tight feeling of foreboding creeping up in his chest. He doesn’t really want to talk to anybody else right now.  
He does some pushups and burpees to get his heart rate up.  
Time crawls.  
The dark match (Zack Ryder and some new kid from NXT who he doesn't know) has just started when a blonde woman in glasses and a sweater vest runs up to him.  
“Changes!” she says, brandishing a stapled packet. She slaps it in his hand and rushes off down the hallway in pursuit of someone else.  
Seth scans the pages. They're typed, but there are handwritten changes; words scratched out with substitutions written in. There’s whole sentences added onto his promo in Stephanie’s neat scrawl, flattened into mute grays by fax machine and copier toner. Less than fourteen hours after she threatened him, and she’s giving him additional screen time.  
As a last minute change, they’ve taken Kane and the Usos out. It’s just him and Roman in the main event, now. Seth takes a deep breath.  
It will be fine.  
He’s the greatest of his generation. He’s an exceptional athlete. He is a diamond in a sea of shit.  
Seth finds an empty stairwell, away from the monitors, and reads aloud to himself until it’s time to go on.  
He’s leaning over a trashcan, using a water bottle to wet his hair down when his entrance music starts. Seth flips his hair back and rushes out, letting the briefcase slap against his thigh to distract  
himself from the sensation of the water soaking into the shoulders of his tee shirt.  
Roman tilts his head impatiently when Seth meets his eyes from halfway down the ramp. Roman’s not a good enough actor to conceal his true feelings, and the quiet scorn on his face is real. A producer rushes to hand Seth a mic as he climbs into the ring.  
“So sorry to interrupt you, Roman” Seth drawls, “But...who am I kidding, I’m doing you a _favor_ by not letting you continue to trip over your words.”  
“What do you want, Seth? Haven’t you done enough?” Roman says, raising an eyebrow at him. He looks cooler, just standing there, than Seth probably ever has, and it’s deeply irritating.  
“You’re referring to the way I took care of your lunatic best friend yesterday?” Seth flicks his index finger across the tip of his own nose, like it says in the script. The crowd boos. Roman shakes his head, smiling bitterly.  
“You know, Seth, I’m not sure if you remember this since falling on your head at Wrestlemania, but once upon a time you were one of Dean’s best friends too.”  
The Shield history is a weight around all of their necks, Seth knows, from now until eternity. It’s the first line of his obituary, and the thing that will probably get him the last shot he’ll ever have at a Wrestlemania before he retires. The idea that Roman could think that doesn’t mean something to him, even now, twists at his stomach.  
The crowd response is a raucous mixture of angry boos and enthusiastic cheering. Seth’s face feels hot as the muscles tighten in his jaw. It’s a stupid Smackdown promo, and he needs to get his shit together.  
“Was I?” He draws in a deep breath, “Or was that just what I wanted the both of you to think?”  
“I don’t know,” Roman says, stepping forward with a challenge in his eyes, “But either way, you’re still a treacherous bastard who deserves to get punched in the mouth.”  
He plants a hand in the middle of Seth’s chest, and shoves. Seth shoves back.  
The bell rings, and Seth shoves his feelings down so he can let his body go on autopilot.  
There are lots of fans who talk shit about Roman, but that’s because they’ve never been in the ring with him. There’s an intangible, captivating quality to him and his wrestling that Seth can’t put his finger on; something that goes beyond the things that can be learned or taught. Roman might have a limited repertoire, but he moves like he controls the space around him, and crowds respond to it whether critics want them to or not.  
No rehearsal time for Smackdown isn’t unusual, but they’ve worked together so many times that they don’t need it. They both know the drill by now; they’ll trade blows for the first half, and Seth will dominate, until Roman breaks through for a decisive, heroic victory.  
They circle, locking up, and Seth twists his arm free, leading Roman into a neckbreaker. Roman rolls through, and Seth hits him with a leg drop.  
He is breathing hard, but he is good. He is fine. He is excellent.  
He gets to his feet while Roman plays stunned. It’s Smackdown, so he can gloat a little;  strutting for the crowd like a Big Bad Heel. Seth kicks Roman in the back, not hard enough to hurt much, but enough to warn him that more kicks are coming. Roman grabs him by the ankle, and throws Seth down for a face plant- a sneaky move that Roman most certainly learned from Dean, once  
upon a time. Seth gets his arms under him as the ground comes up to meet him, and relaxes when Roman goes in for the cover.  
Roman is clearly still pissed off at him, because he pins Seth with a forearm pressing into his throat, and it feels good to thrash up out of his grasp at one and a half.  
Seth gets to his feet, and ducks under a clothesline that Roman tries to hit him with, rushing to the ropes to give himself momentum. He rushes at Roman, and Roman ducks underneath his jump, and Seth chases after him to plant a superkick between Roman’s shoulders. He gets Roman into a chokehold, and twists around, dropping him with another neck breaker.  
He goes in for the pin, and Roman waits until two to kick out.  
They get to their feet. Seth lunges at Roman, and Roman whips him into the turnbuckle. Roman rushes at him, and Seth catches him in the gut with his knee.  
Roman elbow strikes him, and the audience counts- one, two, three, and Seth leans back to sell the blows. It’s fucking boring, and he doesn’t want to take it, so he kicks Roman back as he hoists himself up to get both feet on the middle rope. Roman watches him, infuriatingly patient and professional, like he doesn’t mind that Seth just screwed up one of his spots.  
Seth has to reach for the inspiration, but it comes to him, and he gets good air for his diving knee drop. Roman takes the hit like a man, going down cleanly, and Seth hooks his leg for another pin. Roman kicks out at two, and Seth pounds the mat with his fists. A flash of tension runs down his arms with the force of the impact. He’s breathlessly impatient, frustrated that the match isn’t over.  
Roman gets to his feet, grabbing Seth by the hair, and he tugs a little harder than normal. Seth groans when Roman knees him in the gut, and lets himself be deadlifted for a particularly brutal Samoan drop.  
They get up. Roman rushes him for a shoulder tackle, and Seth rolls into the bump as he takes it, selling the fall. His chest feels tight; he can’t seem to catch his breath. Roman takes the space between the two of them to set up for his Superman punch.  
Seth sucks in a breath and doesn’t, can’t wait for the relief to his lungs; he goes for an enzuigiri so Roman can swing at him in mid-air.  
It’s a bit of a shock to both of them when Roman’s fist makes contact with the side of his face. It’s not hard enough to break through the shield of adrenaline, but it’s enough that he’s still surprised as he rolls into the fall. Roman covers him for the pin, and Seth closes his eyes, gasping, trying to breathe through the tension in his face and his chest. The bell sounds, and the crowd screams, and Seth rolls over to press his face into the mat.  
His face hurts. Everything, suddenly, hurts.  
Roman does a victory pose on the ropes with his championship, and Seth rolls out of the ring as fast as he can, struggling to focus as he heads up the ramp.  
Something is wrong with him; the sick, nauseous feeling is back, and something is wrong.  
He doesn’t talk to anyone as he makes his way to the lockers.  
He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he splashes cold water on his face.  
His face is throbbing, and his chest hurts. He’s nauseous.  
Seth sits down on the bench and puts his head in his hands.  
He’s breathing normally, but his vision is blurry. He pulls his hand away from his eyes, and his gloves are wet. His first thought is blood, but it’s not viscous enough. It’s tears, he realizes abruptly.  
“Seth?”  
It’s Roman; hair is pulled back, still wearing his gear. Seth wipes his eyes. Roman’s looking at him with cautious concern; like he’s not sure what happens next.  
If he opens his mouth, he might throw up. Seth scrubs at his eyes again.  
He can’t stop crying.  
“I’m sorry,” Roman says, quietly, “About the punch.”  
“It’s fine,” Seth says, and his voice doesn’t sound right. He shuts his eyes, trying to fight through the nausea. The last fucking thing he wants right now is for Roman to see him like this.  
“Are you...okay?” Roman asks, and he sounds like he’s asking out of obligation, like he’s not sure he really wants to know.  
Seth sucks in a breath.  
“Yeah,” he says, wiping his eyes. He knows the truth.  
 


	10. Know Who You Are At Every Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a gorgeous song by the Cocteau Twins. Huge thanks to Egotrippen, and MFK, and the other people who have cheerleaded this thing. All of you are the absolute best.

Doctor Priya Varma has an undergraduate degree in Psychiatry from the University of Chicago and an MD from Northwestern, where she also did her residency. She’s board certified in Psychiatry and is a member of two different organizations for psychiatric wellness professionals. Most importantly, she accepts online bookings, and has a forty five minute session available at her office in Des Moines just two hours after his flight from Philadelphia is scheduled to land at Davenport International. It takes Seth an hour on the overpriced inflight wi-fi to select her from a list of possible candidates, and fifteen minutes to book and confirm his appointment via email.

Six minutes into the session, Dr. Varma is seated straight-backed in her chair, with a yellow legal notepad in her lap, watching Seth in silence.

He’s due at a house show Thursday night in Pittsburgh, in Cleveland for a show on Friday, Dayton for a show on Saturday, then in Chicago for Extreme Rules on Sunday.   
He needs to be okay by then.

Doctor Varma’s office is a small, cozy oasis of slate blue and off-white. There’s a neatly organized bookshelf to his left, and a window to his right with a gap in the curtains that allows a small beam of sunshine to create a bright stripe across the floor. Seth feels out of place and oversized, stuffed into the eggshell linen couch opposite Dr. Varma’s recliner.

“Seth?” Dr. Varma asks, patiently.

Seth studies her. Dr. Varma is curvy, and her long black hair is braided stiffly to one side. She can’t be much older than he is. Something about the practical sharpness of her dark blue pencil dress and tan leather shoes makes him feel self conscious for wearing gym clothes- shorts and a hoodie- to her office.

He doesn’t have any cues as to how to impress her. He doesn't know what to say.

“I’m not, like, depressed or anything,” he says, “I’m healthy. It’s not like that.”

Dr. Varma scribbles something on her yellow notepad. He can't see what she’s writing, but the look on her face gives off a quiet seriousness.

“Your questionnaire indicated that you are experiencing a higher than usual level of emotional distress. Do you want to tell me more about that?”

Seth takes a deep breath.

He was a child the last time he saw a shrink. There had been blocks for him to play with, and a bunch of cheap crayons that snapped in half when they were used too vigorously.

“I’m not sure...how to talk about it.”

“That’s okay. Why don’t you tell me some things that have been happening lately, and then we can help you narrow your focus on how you feel about them?”

Her smile is polite but sincere.

Seth sits back.

“Okay.”

“Has there been anything going on at home?”

He shrugs. “I’m never at home.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“For work. Five or six days a week.”

She looks surprised.

“That is a lot. You’re,” she flips the page of his intake form back, “A professional wrestler? That sounds like an interesting career.”

Seth sits back, spreading his arms over the back of the sofa.

“It is,” he says, “I’m really good at it.”

“I’ve never really watched it,” she says, “My brother liked it when we were children. I think...Stone Cold was his favorite.”

Seth folds his arms over his chest.

“Steve Austin, huh? Nice guy. He bought me a round once.”

Dr. Varma smiles politely.

“That’s nice. Do you work with him?”

“He’s mostly retired, but he comes back a couple times a year. He bought us brews to congratulate me and the guys after a good Mania match.”

“Mania?”

“Wrestlemania.”

Dr. Varma takes a sip from her Starbucks cup, and rests it back on the side table beside her chair.

“That’s a very famous event.”

“Biggest there is in wrestling. It’s our Super Bowl.”

Dr. Varma nods as she scribbles something on her notepad.

“Sounds to me as though your career is going very well.”

Seth folds his arms over his chest.

“I mean. It was.”

“Was?”

“I...screwed up.”

“Oh?”

“About a month ago. At Wrestlemania.”

She blinks, watching him carefully.

“That sounds like a big deal.”

“Yeah. It was.” Seth takes a deep breath, “I took a bad fall on my head and blacked out. If I hadn’t done that...I would be Champion right now.”  
Dr. Varma’s eyes are wide.

“You blacked out? That sounds pretty dangerous.”  
Seth folds his arms over his chest.

“Wrestling is always dangerous. Comes with the job.”

“I can imagine,” Dr. Varma says, “How did that make you feel?”

Seth stares at her.

“I was angry. Who wouldn’t be?”

Dr. Varma nods.

“That must’ve been a hard day for you.”

“I was out for two weeks.”

The memory of the wet ground under his hands as he threw up by the side of the road sends a hot, heavy pang to the center of his chest. It had taken a day or two to get the dirt out from under his fingernails.

“And how have you been feeling since you came back?”

Seth scrubs his hand back through his hair.

“Okay, physically.”

That’s not the whole answer. Her silence is leading; he can tell that she knows.

He takes a deep breath.

“I hurt someone, the other day. In the ring,” he says.

“By accident?”

“Sort of.” He sucks in a heavy breath and stares down at the carpet.

“Sort of?”

“It was mostly an accident, I mean.” He uncrosses his arms; rests one hand on the armrest of the couch.

“ _Mostly_ an accident?” Dr. Varma taps the capped end of her pen against her notepad.

“We had a match,” Seth says,  “And I lost my temper. I broke his nose.”

“How did you do that?” Dr. Varma asks. There’s something hard in her eyes, and it dawns on Seth for the first time that maybe she’s evaluating if he’s a _threat to her own_ _safety_.  
He could be, if he wanted to be.  
He doesn’t like that thought. It makes his stomach clench up.

“Two days ago. I hit him,” Seth says.

Dr. Varma’s dark eyes are wide and focused.

“How did it feel when you hit him?”

He remembers the sharp sound of his fist meeting Dean’s nose; the feeling of the bone and cartilage giving way.

Seth stares at the carpet; He doesn’t want to look at her face right now.  
He hit Dean before he’d had a chance to think about it; like a reflexive release of pent up anger and frustration.

“Maybe...good at first, for a second,” Seth admits, and it’s weird how difficult it is just to _say_ it. “But I messed up. It was bad. He's...he’s a buddy of mine, and I know I messed up.”

He remembers Dean above him in the ring, hands hot and tight on his wrists, blood flowing in a steady line down Dean’s face.

Dr. Varma’s pen scratches quietly across her notepad.

“Is this the first time you’ve hurt somebody like that?”

Seth swallows hard, and nods.

“Yeah. I don’t. _They_ don’t let you _do_ this if you hurt people like that.”  
“So you don’t normally hit people, outside the context of wrestling, when the intent is to hurt them.”  
“Not on purpose. No.”

“It sounds to me like it scared you,” Dr. Varma says. She sounds calm. Possibly even a little sympathetic.  
Seth performs in front of people for a living, but he’s not used to submitting himself to this type of scrutiny. He cups his hand over his mouth. There’s still a sensitive spot right over his cheekbone where Roman had hit him by accident, and the tips of his fingers brush against it.

“I guess. Yeah,” Seth says, “Maybe it did.”

Dr. Varma takes a sip of her Starbucks. Seth can see the string hanging from the lid; tea, not coffee.

“You said before that you lost your temper when it happened.”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you lose your temper?”

“He clawed up my back. And then he bit me,” Seth says, and his throat feels rough around the words.

“Is that...normal in wrestling?”

“Not really. I mean. Guys scratch each other sometimes, it’s kinda old fashioned but it…works. And, guys’ve bit me before. _He’s_ bit me before, but this was different.”

“Different how?”

“He bit my ear.”

“And why was that different?”

Her voice is like smooth, cool water, and her eyes are kinder than they have any right to be, considering how many questions she’s asking.

He takes a breath, purposefully, the way he’s learned to do when he has a barbell in his hands. Feel your stomach and your chest as your lungs expand, then contract. Endure the way you ache because there is another breath to follow.

Breathe, because you’re alive.

His heart's still pounding through the ache in his chest.

“I’ve…messed around with him before,” he says quietly. It’s very strange that the words just escape into the air.

“As in fought with him? Outside the ring?”

Seth shakes his head.

“No. The other way.”

Aside from Marek, he’s never told anyone else before.  
“Sexually?”  
He nods.  
“Just once.”  
“I see,” She nods back at him, meeting his eyes. If she’s surprised or disgusted at all that he would do something like that with another guy, it doesn’t show on her face.

“But, the night that I broke his nose, there was some kissing. Backstage. Right before the match.”

His voice is controlled, but getting the words out feels huge; like jumping out into the open air and not knowing which way to land.

“He kissed you?” Dr. Varma looks a little concerned.

“No,” he says, softly, “Other way around.”

“I see. And you think that’s why he bit you during your match?”

“I don’t know. When I kissed him, he kissed back, I mean, he got into it, and then he shoved me off and told me we couldn’t.”

He remembers the feeling of Dean’s waist through his tee shirt in the elevator.

_I still look at you._

“Then we fucking go out there and it’s like he can’t keep his hands off of me.”

Dr. Varma taps her pen against the edge of her notepad.

“I wouldn’t say he ‘couldn’t’ because that implies it wasn’t his choice. Did you feel violated when he bit you?”

“Violated?” Seth stares at her, blankly.

“Seth,” Dr. Varma says, her voice a touch softer, “Just because you like your friend, and find him attractive, that doesn't mean you had to be okay with it when he bit you. You hit him. It is imperative that you don’t let this become a pattern. It’s very important to interrogate the things that you felt in that moment.”  
The words hang in the air in the space between their chairs.

Seth runs his hand over the linen of the couch cushion.

He knows she’s right.  
“After we...messed around, he kind of stopped talking to me.”

“When did things first become sexual between the two of you? Can you give me a timeline?”

“Um. It was the night before Wrestlemania. So, the end of March.”

Dr. Varma writes something on her notepad.

“And he stopped talking to you after that? When you were dealing with your injury?”

Seth swallows around the jolt of anger that passes through his skin.

“Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

He huffs out a breath.

“That’s a stupid question, doc.”  
Dr. Varma calmly tilts her head, looking at him.

“Then why don’t you want to answer it?”

It’s the look his coaches used to give him whenever he went for a move and landed wrong.

“I didn’t like it,” he says. His voice is flat and mean, like concrete.

“Did you _try_ to tell him that it hurt you?”

“He knows,” Seth says automatically, because Dean reads people with alarming accuracy, “He knows me. There’s no way he didn’t know.”

“So you believe he was aware that his actions hurt you, but that he ignored you anyway?”

“Yeah.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“ _Angry_ ,” Seth says, “Nobody wants to get ignored by someone they-”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.  
  
He closes his mouth. Breathes. Tries again.  
  
“I don’t know how I feel about...him,” Seth says, not sure if that’s true, “But we were friends before, and then we weren't.”

Dr. Varma nods.

“That sounds difficult. If it turned out that he wanted to be friends with you without things between you ever being sexual again, would you be okay with that?”  
It gives him pause. Since Mania, he’s thought _so much_ about how much he wants Dean. Sometimes it’s all he can think about. The thought that he might somehow never get there, but would still have to see Dean everyday, is heavy and agonizing.

“No,” he says, breathing out, “But I’d do it, if that’s what he wanted.”

“Because he’s important to you.”

The answer twists hotly in his gut.  
“Yes.”

Dr. Varma scribbles something on her legal pad. She’s smiling, slightly.  
  
“That’s good.”

“Why?”

“Because it means that you understand that he has a right to set boundaries.”

“Yeah. I just don’t know what he wants from me,” Seth says, digging his fingers into the knees of his shorts.  
“I think you should ask him directly. But you need to be aware that he might not know himself.”

It hadn’t really occurred to him. He can feel himself grimace.

“It is very concerning that you hit him,” Dr. Varma says seriously, “I can tell you know that’s not an acceptable thing to do,” she says, frowning.

Seth nods. He’s genuinely ashamed of that, on top of the panic that he might lose Dean’s respect, or just _Dean,_ all together.

“I do. Yeah. I know.”

Dr. Varma’s dark brown eyes are wide behind her glasses.

“Please, Seth, try to tell me what you felt when he bit you,” she says. She’s so sincere in her concern, in her relentlessness. If she locked eyes with him like that and she were wrestling him, he would give her whatever move she was setting him up for.

The memory of Dean biting him is like a timewarp back inside his body; back into the rage and shame and the ugly desire. He remembers the rightness, and strangeness, of sharp teeth digging into his skin, of Dean’s hot breath in his ear.

“It was a turn on,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice, “But I was mad at him.”

“Good,” Dr. Varma says, “Tell me why you were mad.”

“It felt like he was...mocking me.”

“Mocking you? How? _”_

Seth slaps his hands down on the couch.

“Because it felt good,” he says, “But we were wrestling, I mean, we were on _television_. I don’t know why he did it _then_.”  
“Then. Instead of?”  
“When I could have,” his voice cracks, " _enjoyed it_ , when we were _alone._ ” Seth grips the arm of the sofa hard, digging his fingers in as far as they’ll go. He scrubs a hand back through his hair, roughly, dragging his nails over his scalp. He’s fucking shaking.

Dr. Varma sits back in her chair, breathing out. She’s nodding at him, like she’s solved something.

“You’ve wrestled him before, right?”

“YES,” Seth shouts, exasperated, “Fucking _hundreds of times_.”

“Maybe it felt safe to him, when he bit you.”  
Seth stares at her. He’s pretty sure he’s just left some small but permanent dents in the armrest of her couch.  
“ _Safe?_ ”  
A small smile flickers across Dr. Varma’s face. It’s not mean, but it gets shoved down under her professional demeanor.

“Yes. From what you’ve said, it sounds like this is confusing for him, too. Maybe it was easier for him to deal with those feelings with wrestling than with words.”

Seth stares at her blankly. She continues.

“You told me he kissed you back when you kissed him. He bit you, even though that’s not something he normally does. He is _not_ indifferent to you.”

“But I broke his nose,” Seth says helplessly, “What if I can’t make him talk to me?”

Dr. Varma shakes her head sadly.

“Then unfortunately, you know where you stand. You can’t carry on a sexual relationship, or even a platonic friendship, without communication,” she says, “If you can’t bring yourself to talk to him, and apologize, you don’t deserve his forgiveness for breaking his nose, or his friendship, or anything else.”

She’s right.

The session is less pressure packed as it winds down. She asks him about his family; about his parents and his brother, and what kind of hobbies he does for fun. If she thinks he’s crazy, she doesn’t say so.  
He asks, though, when there’s only five minutes left.  
Dr. Varma lays her hands over her notepad in her lap.  
“I don’t like to use that word. It stigmatizes people dealing with all sorts of circumstances and isn’t a medically accurate definition.”  
“Oh,” Seth says, numbly, “Okay.”  
“I don’t have anything to diagnose you with after one session, but you’re going through something. And it’s very important that, while you work through it, you don’t hurt anybody else, or yourself. Do you think you can commit to that?”  
Seth leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He nods.  
“Yes.”  
“Good,” she says, “I think this process is going to help you.”  
She sounds confident.

She smiles politely when she ushers him out.  
  
Seth hunches over the reception desk, rifling through the calendar in his phone, and schedules his next two appointments with the help of her redheaded, gum chewing secretary.  
  
The drive home is blissfully brief, and relief washes over him as soon as he glimpses his front door. It takes two tries to get the key in the fucking lock, and then he tumbles through the doorway to his house with his luggage.  
  
The weight of his bags is nothing compared to what his muscles are used to, but it’s still more than he can stand to bring them upstairs with him right now. He should put in a load of laundry, but he has no energy to will himself to do it.  
  
Seth climbs the stairs two at a time, and makes a beeline for the master bedroom. He strips off his shirt, tosses his phone onto the corner of the bedspread, and falls face first into his pillow so he can descend down into dark obliviousness.  
  
It’s late afternoon when he wakes next to a dark puddle of drool on his pillow. The sun pours in through the curtains in long, golden rows that stretch across the floor.  
  
He doesn’t remember dreaming about anything.  
  
He knows without looking that there’s nothing but protein powder, beer, and supplements in the kitchen. Without getting up, he pulls up GrubHub on his phone and orders a pizza.  
  
He can see his driveway from the window beside his bed, so Seth rolls onto his back to wait for the delivery man by killing time on Instagram.  
Zahra has blocked him, which he feels guilty about, but which also strikes him as a little funny. Bizarrely, Leighla hasn’t, though she has severed their mutual “following”, which is decidedly unfunny.  
  
Bayley looks beautiful in the photos she re-posted from a fan at an NXT show. She’s hugging a little girl over the barricade, and they’re both beaming with joy.  
  
Finn Balor takes too many selfies, even for someone who looks like that.  
  
Renee has posted some photos of her #newhair, which is shorter and blonder, or something. The curve of her smile is bright and confident, and makes Seth remember that he’s been avoiding something.  
  
Waiting for him, with two taps of his fingertip, are the text messages he sent Dean two nights ago when he was drunk, still unanswered.  
Seth takes a deep breath as he scrolls.  
  
_Tried to find you after the show._

 _Where are you? Are you at the hotel?_  
  
_You fucking asshole. I can’t believe you did that._  
  
_I fcuked up I know I shouldn‘t have broke ur nose I’m sorry it was an accident_  
  
_Why won’t u answer_  
  
_Talk too me_  
  
It’s humiliating to see his shame laid bare in plain text like this.  
He doesn’t want to put this down so that he’ll have to pick it back up again.  
He rolls onto his stomach, propping up on his elbows to make it easier to type.  
  
_Sorry for those texts._

_I was drunk._

_I’m sober now._

_I’m sorry about your nose._  
  
Seth takes a deep breath, and hits send. It sends the nerves in the pit of his stomach into a tight little coil, and he forces himself to suck in a breath.  
  
_Can we talk?_

_Please._

_It’s important._  
  
He turns off the screen of his phone, and goes to take a fast shower before the pizza arrives.  
  
Eating pizza on the couch in front of the TV is one of Seth's favorite things to do when he’s home. He has two large pies all to himself, and he stuffs them mindlessly into his mouth while watching ESPN. The living room window is propped open, and it feels so good to have the breeze blowing gently through his wet hair. 

He takes his bags into the laundry room during the commercial, and puts a load in the wash.

Two hours pass like nothing.  
  
He’s standing in front of the fridge, getting ready to crack open a beer when the text message notification chimes loudly in his pocket.  
  
" _Okay"_


	11. Fuel to my Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Tegan and Sara's "Stop Desire".

“ _Fuck_ ,” Seth says aloud into his mostly empty refrigerator.  
  
It’s getting dark outside, and he couldn’t be bothered to turn the lights on when he’d entered the kitchen. Seth pries open his beer, and hops up to sit on the edge of the countertop in the dark. The handle of the cabinet behind him digs into his back, and the marble is cool against the backs of his knees. Seth stares down at the bright screen of his phone.

He has to do this right.  
  
_Now?_ he texts back, _Should I call?_  
  
Seth is tired of waiting and he wants answers. He doesn’t want to have this conversation without being able to see Dean’s face, but he _will_ if that’s the only way to have it. He takes a swig from his beer bottle, wrapping his lips over the opening, and runs his tongue around the rim of the bottleneck. His teeth click against the glass.  
  
The phone screen dims, then shuts off from disuse. Seth smacks the phone down onto the counter- harder than he should- but at least the screen is facing up. His heart hammers in his chest.  
  
His beer is half empty, the label damp with moisture by the time the text chimes again.  
  
_No_  
  
_Lets do it in person_  
  
Seth takes another drag on his beer, then types back furiously.  
  
_Okay. When?_  
  
Seth is good at preparing for things. He can do this. He can be ready.  
  
_I’m back on the road Sunday,_ Dean texts back, much faster than he did before.  
  
“Fuck,” Seth says again. But he types back, _Before or after the show?_  
  
The rest of Seth’s beer goes down in three long, greedy swallows. He turns, tossing the bottle to his right, directly into the basin of the sink, where it promptly cracks.  
  
He can already tell he’s going to need to give himself a grueling workout tomorrow before the show.  
  
_Flight gets in at 1,_ Dean texts back, _Lunch?_  
  
Lunch. Dean wants to meet before the show. Which means that if it doesn’t go well, they’ll have to see each other at work all day afterwards.  
  
Seth breathes out an angry sigh.  
  
Maybe that means that Dean _does_ think it’s going to go well? Or maybe it means he intends to let Seth down as politely as possible, but reaffirm their working relationship and give him some infuriating “buddy, don’t worry about it” punch on the shoulder. Maybe Dean wants time after the show to go grab a beer with Roman before they head to the next town, and he doesn’t want Seth to cut into his personal time with his friends.  
  
_Sure,_ Seth texts back, _Text me the day of and we’ll figure it out._  
  
_Yeah,_ Dean replies almost instantly.  
  
Seth didn’t know Dean could type that fast. The thought that Dean might have been staring at his phone, waiting for Seth’s reply, makes a funny twinge of hope bloom up in the center of Seth’s chest.

Seth doesn’t hesitate when it comes to romantic or sexual relationships, and it’s been a long time since anyone he really wanted to fuck has said no to his advances. When things don’t work out, he moves on, finds someone hotter. Wanting someone this badly without knowing if he'll get to do anything about it is endlessly frustrating.  
  
Seth grabs a dark, stout beer from the fridge, and flicks off the lights in the living room as he returns to the sofa. He lays back, his torso buoyed by one of Leighla’s oversized, carefully chosen throw pillows. Seth takes slow, careful sips of beer as he scrolls back up through all his texts with Dean.  
  
He and Dean don’t text that often, now that they mostly don’t travel together.

There’s the texts from February, the night the photos leaked. There’s texts from the house show in January, when Roman’s phone had died, and Dean had texted asking if Seth knew where he was. There's a text from the end of December, with a picture of a custom, hand painted set of Shield action figures that someone had actually _given to Dean_ at a convention. Even in the hideous, washed out lighting of the convention center, their little faces are painstakingly detailed- much more so than in most of WWE’s official merch.

 _How fucking cool is that?_ Seth had replied at the time.

He wonders if Dean has the figurines displayed somewhere at his house in Vegas. Seth has never been to Dean’s house.

 _You’re not his friend,_ Roman had said, way back in February. He had tried to brush it off, but it had stung.

 _I was,_ Seth tells himself bitterly, _I am._ But he doesn’t know for sure.

Seth flicks his thumb and scrolls up to a text Dean sent him back in September.  
  
_Come out with us_

It was a Tuesday night, 10:38pm. Just after Smackdown had ended, while the building was packing up.

He never texted back, and their next exchange was two weeks later. Seth doesn’t remember the text. He’s not sure who the “us” is, either- Renee? Roman? Some of the guys?

It’s easy, _too easy_ , to imagine it; meeting up with Dean at a bar with a bunch of other people around. Seth would be late and Dean would make room for him in a tiny booth, and they would sit, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh in the corner until they found an excuse to sneak off together.  
  
It’s a painfully adolescent feeling, being so eager for these things.

Seth drains the rest of his beer, sets the bottle on the floor, rests his phone on his chest, and tries to fall asleep.

He wakes up with the impact of a cold hard surface, and his eyes snap open. He’s rolled off the couch onto the floor. His alarm goes off moments later, and that sets the tone for the day.  
  
The flight to Pittsburgh is besieged by a crying child. His bags make it to their final destination, but it takes the baggage claim an hour to find them, while he waits uselessly by the baggage carousel, growing more and more impatient.  
  
The Workout of the Day is Fran. He _hates_ Fran.  
  
He works Heath Slater. Heath is a nice guy, but Seth has got better shit to do, and Heath knows that Seth knows that, and visibly resents it. They do a good spot where Heath does his snapmare driver and Seth does a hands free flip to escape it. He lands on his feet, and melds the momentum seamlessly into a superkick. It gets a decent sized pop. It’s the only thing that stops him from shouting in frustration in a pathetic attempt to make the time pass faster.

Friday is Cleveland, and he works Luke Harper. It’s hardly ideal, but Harper is a good brawler, and much faster than he has any right to be considering his size. Seth does a full roll over to sell a sitout bomb, and does a kip up into a kick to push Harper down on his back. Harper goes down just a little too slow, and Seth gets to his feet to stomp on his chest angrily. Harper hooks his leg into a drop toehold, and they roll each other’s shoulders down back and forth, until Seth finally escapes with the pin.  
  
It was very good, and he should be proud, but he mostly feels nothing.  
  
The restaurant next to the hotel in Dayton is open until 2AM, and Seth goes to the bar alone. He orders a whiskey, alongside a plate of disgustingly greasy fries. He eats them all, one by one, dipping his fingers into his mouth to lick off the ketchup in the disgusting way his mother would have been appalled by.  
  
A startlingly pretty girl with dark brown hair and thick eyeliner tries to get his attention by leaning down over the bartop in a way that shows off the very large tits she has stuffed into her corset. When she won’t stop batting her eyelashes at him, Seth glances up from his drink.  
  
“Can I help you,” he asks, sounding a little less polite than he means to be.  
“Yeah honey, do you have a lighter?” she asks. She has a neck tattoo of a butterfly. Her voice has a dark, smoky edge to it that immediately makes him wonder what she tastes like; if that’s her natural pitch; if there’s so much ash in her throat that he would hate putting his tongue in her mouth.  
“I don’t,” he says, cracking a small smile, “Sorry.”  
“That’s okay,” she says, locking her eyes on his. “You’re cute enough that you don’t need to have one to talk to me.”  
She’s pretending she’s doing him a favor when she trails her spiky black nails over his wrist, but they both know different.  
The howl of lust and loneliness roars to a fever pitch inside of him. He tosses back the rest of his drink.  
  
He makes out with her in the elevator. The way she kisses is boring, with lots of slick, repetitive movements of her tongue. Her lip gloss is sticky, and her clothes smell like smoke and perfume.  
He takes her up to his hotel room, and lets her give him a blowjob while he sits on the edge of the bed, his head tilted back.  
She works very hard at trying to get him off. She doesn’t deep throat, but she uses her hands and lots of spit.  
He doesn’t come yet.  
Something feels off.  
She strips for him. It’s trashy. She’s not an athlete, but she clearly works out, and she has a nice curvy body.  
She lays back on the bed. He looks at her tan skin on the pale comforter; at the look on her face as she waits for him to make up his mind.  
He’s afraid, suddenly, of what he might do if he climbs on top of her, or grabs her by her wrists. He doesn’t want to find out.  
He eats her out. She comes, digging her heels into his naked back.  
  
She still wants to fuck. She’s cool with doggy style. She’s freaky enough that she makes him do her on the rug in front of the bathroom door. The door has a full length mirror, and she wants to lift her head to watch herself make snarling, sexy faces.  
Seth catches his own dark, disconnected eyes in the mirror as he pulls back before sliding into her again.  
He used to do this kind of one night stand thing all the time. He used to be so good at it.  
There’s a brief rush of relief when he comes, but the hollow, angry, lonely feeling is right there on its heels. He pulls out slowly and keeps her bent over, slipping two fingers in her pussy, and uses some strong, well timed movements to help finish her off.  
  
She wants more. He declines.  
She dresses and freshens up in the bathroom.  
He gives her cab money, and she leaves.  
  
He showers, then tries to sleep. He thrashes around. It’s disturbing not to be tired out at all by sex. It’s almost four by the time he falls asleep.  
  
Saturday morning, he pushes himself through his workout so fast that he shaves a second and a half off his previous time. It’s good, but it doesn’t totally clear the bad mood clouds swirling around in his head.  
  
His match is second on the card. Dean’s absence is a heavy weight around all their necks, and Dolph is not working class enough to be an adequate substitute for the hometown crowd. They oversell for each other. Seth does a slingblade and Dolph does a zigzag, and Seth sneakily uses the briefcase to attack Dolph and put him down when the ref isn’t looking, and the whole thing gets enough pops that they’ve justified their paychecks for the evening.  
  
He has a sharp, angry buzz in his skin when he walks back through the curtain.  
  
He stops to grab a water bottle from craft on his way back to the locker room. The crisp, cold water is rejuvenating, and he gulps it down so fast that it bends the plastic inwards. Seth lowers his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
And then his whole body freezes in place.  
  
Some twenty feet away, at the end of the hallway, is Dean, who is slouched forward in a plastic chair with a tired, harassed look on his face while one of the ringside doctors explains something to him.  
  
Seth draws in a breath. He’s still in his wrestling gear, shirtless, dripping with sweat, with a stupid towel draped over his shoulders.  
  
Dean is in blue jeans, sneakers, a gray leather jacket, and a faded black Rocky Mountains tee shirt that somebody probably gave him years ago. The doctor (a sandy haired, middle aged guy whose name Seth doesn’t remember) is still speaking when Dean’s gaze lands on, and visibly adjusts for Seth.  
  
Their eyes lock. A shock moves down through Seth’s chest and stomach, and flashes through his groin.  
  
Seth walks forward, tingling, conscious of his every step.  
  
Dean stares at him. His expression is a picture of deliberate stillness, but his eyes are wide and alert.  
  
“Anyway,” the doctor says to Dean, when Seth is close enough to hear, “You’re cleared for tomorrow, since the swelling’s gone down. Just make sure not to hit it against anything for the next two weeks, and be sure to keep your head elevated when you sleep.”  
  
“Thanks Doc,” Dean says. He’s still looking at Seth.  
  
The doctor claps Dean on the shoulder, nods at Seth politely, and hurries off.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, and it’s the slightly deeper, more conciliatory voice he uses when he knows he’s done something wrong. He clasps his hands behind his neck and rolls his head back slightly, like a stretch. It's an infuriatingly casual gesture.  
  
“Thought you were getting in tomorrow,” Seth says, with more petulance than he means to let on. He’s not paying enough attention to his surroundings to catalog who can see them right now, but he knows they’re not exactly in private.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, getting to his feet. They’re suddenly at eye level with less than a foot between them, “They changed their minds about when to get my nose x-rayed, so I had to fly out today to get cleared for tomorrow.”  
  
“Yeah?” Seth says, and he knows he sounds annoyed, but he can’t help it. Dean nods; a barely perceptible dip of his head.  
  
“I got in a couple hours ago for the tests. I was gonna call you.”  
  
“Were you?” Seth says. He's angry, but it’s hard to focus on that when his skin is buzzing with excitement all over at the sound of Dean’s voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, and his eyes are wide and honest and…there’s something there, a little hint of something vulnerable that Seth isn’t expecting.  
  
“Well,” Seth says, flatly, “I guess you didn’t have time.”  
  
Seth’s surprised by the hand that grips his sweaty arm, just above the elbow.  
  
“Seth,” Dean says, “It’s not like that. I know we gotta talk.”  
  
Dean’s skin is hot. Seth wants that hand run up against the grain of his hair, up to his shoulders, up to his neck. It’s really inconvenient being angry at someone when you also want sex from them, because it’s impossible to decide what takes precedence.

Dean lets him go.  
  
“No time like the present.” Seth says. He drains his water bottle. When he licks the last little droplets of water off his lips, Dean’s eyes flick down and he actually _watches_ . Fuck.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, “You’re right.”  
  
“I need to shower really fast,” Seth says, “but then we should talk. And get some dinner.”  
  
Dean’s got a spectacular poker face, but there are little tells to look for if you know him well enough. Something flickers across his face, across the set of his eyebrows; some kind of conflict that gets smoothed out a half second later.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, folding his arms over his chest, “Meet you in the parking lot.”  
  
He takes a little step back, like he’s trying to disengage himself from Seth's gravity before they get locked into something they can’t finish.  
  
Seth knows how he feels.  
  
“Cool.”  
  
He can feel Dean’s eyes on his back as he walks back to the lockers.  
  
His arm is still buzzing and hot in the place Dean touched him. There are too many people in the locker room to do anything more than take the world's fastest, hottest shower. Seth digs his nails into his scalp as he rinses his hair.  
  
Seth changes as fast as he can, runs some gel through his damp hair, and inspects himself before the mirror one last time before he grabs his bags. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, leather converse, and a dark gray muscle tee that shows off his biceps. He puts new contacts in, and throws on a dash of cologne.  
  
He must look pretty good, because Dolph wolf whistles at him as Seth makes his way out into the parking lot.  
  
“Hot date?” Ziggler says, because he is an enormous busybody.  
  
“Nah,” Seth says, not stopping to really look back over his shoulder as he pushes his luggage out the door, “Just grabbing some food with Ambrose.”  
  
He knows it looks weird if they’re hanging out together so soon after having a very public fight. He’s also been doing this long enough to know that if he omits who he’s going with, and anyone sees them leave, it’ll be front page news in the locker room tomorrow.  
  
Seth is not prepared for the sight that meets him in the parking lot; Dean, sitting on the hood of a shiny black sedan. He sits back as Seth approaches, splaying his hands over the polished chrome. He looks like the sexy bad boy love interest from a cheesy 80s movie.

“Hey,” Dean says. He eyes Seth up and down.  
  
"Hi."

Dean holds up the rental car keyring on his index finger, spinning it around in a lazy circle.

“I’ll drive,” Dean says. Seth nods. Dean hops down, pops the trunk, and Seth loads his bags into the car.

It feels like everything around him is moving at normal speed, but he’s stuck moving in slow motion as Dean turns the car key and the engine starts. The tension between them is thick and heavy in the air.  
  
“Dinner?” Dean says, and Seth nods. He doesn’t wanna wait for them to have this conversation, but he’s starving.

They've driven through Ohio together half a dozen times, always with Roman in tow. Alone like this, Seth is keenly aware of the quiet in the car as Dean steers them out of the parking lot and onto the highway. It’s really weird to be alone like this, the two of them, without Roman in the car.

There’s a Steak n Shake a few exits up I-75 with a huge parking lot and a 24 hour drive thru. They get steakburgers, waters, and fries. There are hardly any cars in the lot surrounding them, and Dean parks facing the highway as they eat. Dean puts a truly _horrifying_ amount of hot sauce on his fries, as usual, and Seth dishonors his Mexican relatives by only using extra ketchup.

It’s so fucking weird, eating in silence like this, barely looking at each other. Seth is glad to have food to focus on, because he feels like he’s going to explode, waiting. He wonders if he should ask to turn on the radio or maybe just reach over the gearshift and do it himself. In the Shield, Dean had usually deferred to Seth or Roman’s musical tastes with the resignation of someone who long ago learned to function with as few creature comforts as possible. Seth’s not sure if music would be a mood killer now, or even what the mood is supposed to be. He wants to jump out of his skin.

They finish their burgers. Seth crumples up the paper wrapping from his, and tosses it into the paper bag to discard later.

Dean takes a long drag on his water bottle, killing half of it in a few short gulps. Seth watches the muscles in his throat as he swallows.  
Dean reaches out and turns the key to shut the engine off. It’s a deliberate gesture, and it makes Seth’s heart hammer in his chest.

“Listen,” Dean says carefully, “I’ve been a real asshole to you.” He taps his thumbs against the steering wheel.  
Seth stares at him.

“ _What?”_

“I mean, you broke my nose and everything, and that wasn't cool, but like, I sucked you off and then peaced out on you, and that wasn't cool either.”  
It's a bizarre combination of validation and disappointment to hear Dean acknowledge this. Seth sits up straighter in his seat.

“I suck at shit like this,” Dean says, palming at the sides of his face, “I'm so bad at it. _Christ_.” Dean leans back in his seat, shaking his head, like he’s refocusing the lense of his mind onto something else entirely.

“Okay, but-” Seth says, but Dean waves him off, like he doesn’t want to be interrupted before he gets to his final destination.  
“You ever think about that first match we had, back in FCW?”

That takes Seth by surprise.

“Not...lately,” Seth says. He doesn’t really want to reminisce. He feels like a soda bottle that’s been shaken up with the cap still on, ready to _burst_ if he doesn’t get to talk.

“Well. I do,” Dean says, gesturing to his own chest with a hand “Probably more than I should.”

Seth had heard of Jon Moxley for years before they both came to WWE. He’d had a reputation; good, tough as nails, strong promos, but very likely to drink all your liquor and fuck your girlfriend in the back of your van. It had been a shock, some years later, to receive a firm handshake from him and look into those eyes for the first time; to feel the _weight_ of that gaze on his face.  
  
FCW had been their first shot at each other in the ring. Seth's tried several times to recreate that first match in his head, but there are whole chunks of it that he can’t really remember; moments that had surprised him even back when he first watched the whole thing on tape. Mostly, he remembers the _feeling_ ; the pure exhilaration of doing his _best_ on top of the towering high of being completely, effortlessly _understood_ by somebody he barely knew.

“When I got signed, I’d been having all these blood and guts matches for years,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he speaks, “I was beat to shit, and I really needed the money.”

He pauses, turning his head to meet Seth’s eyes again.

“I'm not the pretty guy, or a guy with a family history _._ It was the best shot I was ever gonna get at not needing to get thrown through burning tables or get a real fucking job for the rest of my life, and I still didn't know if I was ever gonna make it out of that shitty warehouse.”

“You always walked around like you owned the place,” Seth says. Dean is the most self assured person that Seth has ever met in his life. He’s never heard Dean admit to a single moment of self doubt; not in training when things got hard, not when he wanted a match he didn't get, and not when he was injured. Never.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “So did you. That’s not the point. They only let us practice for an hour the day before, you remember that?”

Seth nods. He does.  
  
“That first lockup was so fucking good. And I just knew, _bang,_ like that” he snaps his fingers, “that we were _both_ gonna make it. Half the shit in that match we didn’t practice, and it was great. Even the stuff that didn’t work felt good.”  
Dean meets his eyes again, and Seth nods. That first time they touched was like an instant bolt of electricity, but also a synchronicity, like two magnets slotting together in place.  
Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and slides his seat back, turning his body to face Seth as much as possible, pulling his leg up onto the seat. It must be uncomfortable, but something about Dean turning toward him is reassuring.

“I didn't wanna stop,” Dean says. “I never want our matches to stop.”  
Seth stares. He wants to drag Dean back to the arena and throw him down onto the mat. He wants to climb over the gearshift and make out with Dean in this stupid rental car like a teenager. He wants to strip Dean out of his clothes and touch him, so he can feel as much of the energy between them as possible.  
  
Seth says nothing, forcing himself to breathe.  
  
“Seth,” Dean says, and there’s something warm and dark in his voice, “You and me have got something that most guys like us _never_ get. You’re the best opponent that I’ll ever have.”  
“Wrestling soulmates,” Seth says, quietly. Dean smiles a weird, warm, goofy little grin that makes Seth’s mouth ache with want.  
“Exactly. Me and you on a bad day are better than any fucking Wrestlemania main event. You’re the _Shawn_ to my _Bret_.”  
The dark of the parking lot probably isn’t enough to hide how deep a breath Seth has to draw in to keep his heart from exploding in his chest. This whole time, Dean’s felt the same sparks, the same tension, the same energy, and didn’t know what to do with it either. The thought is a gorgeous, glittering, joyful wave expanding inside of him, until something clicks in his brain, and then it’s abruptly like boiling water running hot into his gut.

“That’s why you stopped talking to me,” Seth says, unable to hide the sharp edge of anger from his voice, “because you didn’t want to put the fucking _wrestling_ at risk?!”  
  
“I kept my hands off of you outside of the ring for four years,” Dean says, and there’s something dangerously sweet in his eyes, “But the day after we both finally give into this thing, you landed on your fucking head. I’ve never seen you botch that bad. I got in your head, and I shouldn’t have. I should have waited, or something. I don’t know.”

Seth stares, startled by the wave of helpless anger that crashes down over him.

“You think that sucking my cock made me fuck up a move? You think you’re _more responsible_ than whatever stupid petty bullshit Orton was trying to pull?”

Dean scowls.

“Orton’s a son of a bitch. Roman and I both wanted to beat the shit out of him.”

“That’s not the fucking point,” Seth says, and his fists are clenched, shaking, _“Why the fuck didn’t you just talk to me!?”_ The words feel sharp as a knife’s edge but he feels entitled.

Dean splays one hand on the gearshift, tapping his fingers.  
“I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You ghosted on me,” Seth snaps, and he’s _shouting_ now, “You have no idea how hard that was. You have no fucking idea _what you_ _put me through_.”

Dean breathes out what might be a sigh.  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“That’s it? You’re sorry?” He’s shaking now, “You asshole. Do you have any idea what it was like to go through all of that shit- landing on my head in front of thousands of people, blacking out, missing _out_ on the biggest day of my career, being injured, getting demoted down the card, and coming back not even being able to _talk_ to my _friend?_ ”  
  
“Didn’t realize you wanted us to be that close,” Deans says, and his voice is infuriatingly calm.  
Seth kicks at the underside of the glove compartment in frustration.  
  
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Dean, _yes_ you fucking did. _You_ fucking started this, _you kissed me_.”  
Dean sits back slightly, like he’s giving himself an extra second to figure out what to say.  
“I told you, I was trying to shake it off.”  
“You were trying to fucking shake ME off,” Seth says, slamming his fist against the dashboard, “Why didn’t you just _talk_ to me about it!?”  
“I should’ve. You’re right,” Dean says, flatly.  
Seth grits his teeth.  
“You still haven’t told me why.”  
“I got scared.”  
“Of what!?” Seth shouts, “What could _you,_ Mr. Fearless, Mr. Well-Adjusted, possibly have to be so fucking scared about?”  
Dean’s body goes quiet and still all over, which is the only clue Seth has that he’s touched a nerve.  
“I lost the love of my life because she and I couldn’t work our shit out. I didn’t wanna lose you too. You’re the _wrestling_ love of my life.”  
Dean’s eyes are blazing with honesty. It makes Seth’s breath catch and his chest hurt.  
“So _not talking to me,_ just cutting me out like that, that’s somehow _different_ from _losing me?_ I’m here, Dean. I’ve _been_ here. We fucking _work_ together.”  
Dean shakes his head.  
“If I had talked to you about it right away, I knew what was gonna happen.”  
“Yeah?”  
Dean smirks at him the way he does when they’re heading into a really dangerous match.  
“We would’ve fucked.”  
A wave of heat flashes through Seth’s body. He folds his arms over his chest.  
“Is that such a bad thing?” he asks, and it comes out sounding more desperate than he means it to.  
Dean shakes his head.  
“No. I’ve thought about it a lot. It’d be great,” there’s a smile in his eyes, that just reaches the very edges of his mouth, “But if it went wrong cause we’re both fucked up idiots, we wouldn’t be able to work together anymore, and I don’t wanna lose that.”  
Seth has to force himself to close his mouth.  
It hurts to hear it out loud like that, after all these lonely months of torturing himself, wondering; to know that Dean does feel the same way about him, but isn’t willing to do anything about it.  
  
_It’d be great.  
_ He is not gonna let this go without taking a shot.  
“No,” Seth says, folding his arms over his chest, “I don’t see it that way.”  
“Seth,”  
“This shit is _already_ affecting the wrestling, or did you forget the part where you fucking bit me and I broke your fucking nose?”  
Dean grimaces.  
“That was-”  
“That was _us_ , Dean. That’s what happens, because that’s what this _feels like_ to _both_ of us.”  
Dean folds his hand over his mouth thoughtfully, pressing his thumb into his chin.  
  
“I won’t do that to you again.”  
Seth shakes his head.  
“Yes you will.”  
“No.”  
“You can’t help yourself,” Seth says, with a sureness that surprises himself, “And neither can I. I _liked_ it, idiot. That’s why I broke your nose.”

Dean is the one suggesting that they never have sex, but something about that makes him smirk. And...Jesus, it was a lot easier to just be angry at him when they weren’t in the same room.  
They’re both so completely fucked.

“Sorry,” Dean says, “I was kinda wound up after you _kissed me_ .”  
“Fuck that, don’t say you’re sorry,” Seth says, and he takes Dean’s hand in his, pulling it towards himself to press it against his chest like some kind of weirdly intimate palm strike, “This shit isn’t gonna get any fucking better if we ignore it.”  
“We could fuck up our careers, Seth,” Dean says, but he’s not taking his fucking hand back.  
Seth laughs- short and derisive.  
“We’re already doing that. At least, I am. And a lot of it is cause I can’t stop thinking about you.”  
Dean’s eyebrows flick up, but the rest of his face is still closed off. Seth still has his hand.  
“The answer is to let this thing happen. We should be friends, and coworkers. And we should fuck.”

Dean stares at their hands together. The conflict in his brain is written all over his body; one hand is balled into a fist against the seat, and the other spread open, warm and flat against Seth’s chest, where he can probably feel Seth’s heartbeat.

“We could hurt each other,” Dean says, looking Seth directly in the eyes.  
“I know,” Seth says, “I don’t care. I _want_ you.”

He works his thumb between Dean’s hand and his chest, and squeezes, tight.  
A lot of things in his life are uncertain, but this he knows in his gut, in his skin. This thing is huge and scary and he wants all of it.  
Dean shuts his eyes, sighing out like he’s just taken a punch.  
  
Seth isn’t really sure what’s happening at first when Dean twists his wrist free, knocking Seth’s hand out of the way, but then, Dean is fisting his hand in Seth’s shirt, yanking him forward over the gear shift, and pressing their foreheads together.

Seth is twisted like a pretzel and at first he thinks maybe Dean is going to kiss him, but what he gets instead is Dean, close-eyed, breathing slowly, with a hand wrapped around the back of his neck to hold them in place. There’s more power in that tension, in these meager points of skin to skin contact, than Seth had felt from actually fucking somebody else the night before.  
  
“You and those girls,” Dean says, “You’re done? You’re done with all of them? Cause I ain’t somebody’s mistress.”  
“Yes,” Seth gasps, breathlessly, and he rambles, because _this is actually happening,_ “It’s done. It’s all finished. I’m free and clear.”  
The huge, unnerving feeling in his stomach is like like jumping off the turnbuckle at one of those outdoor festivals he'd worked in his early twenties; launching out into the bright blue sky, waiting for somebody on the cold hard ground to catch him.  
He’s nervous when Dean lets him go, shifting back down into the driver’s seat, pressing both hands on the steering wheel.  
When Dean glances over at him again, there is so much delicious _hunger_ in his eyes.  
  
“We got four hours on the road before we get to Chicago,” Dean says, and he chews on his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, before he adds, “Do you wanna leave it all for tomorrow, and just go to a hotel with me now?”

Seth’s body goes hot all over. He shudders.  
“Yes.”


	12. Let It Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song of the same name by Tame Impala.

The thunderstorm reported for the following morning arrives ahead of schedule, blanketing the highway with steady sheets of rain. Dean drives while Seth picks a hotel a few exits up from where the company spent the previous evening. Seth books everything with his credit card, which makes him wonder how _actual_ gay guys work out who pays for what shit. Dean doesn’t need GPS once he knows what exit to get off of, so Seth stuffs his phone in his pocket and watches the silver streams of water pulsating rhythmically across the windshield instead of staring at Dean’s mouth, or Dean's hands on the steering wheel.

When they arrive, there aren't any open parking spaces near the entrance, so they have to go a few rows back. The rain beats an angry staccato against the roof of the motionless car, so loud that Seth knows they're both going to get drenched. He pulls the strings of his hoodie tight under his chin to keep his head dry. Dean’s jacket is real leather, so he shucks it off and leaves it on the front seat. They don’t touch, or make eye contact, as they collect their things from the trunk. The wet, black asphalt of the parking lot shimmers orange in the tall lights as they haul their bags toward the hotel.  
  
“Fuck,” Seth says. The air is warm and muggy, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the water from invading his sneakers, his sweatshirt, the knees of his jeans.  
  
“We hope you enjoy your stay,” the front desk girl says brightly, handing him the room keys with a smile. Seth will wonder for years if she has any feelings about the fact that they’re both dudes _,_ but her face betrays nothing.  
  
In the elevator, Dean gives a solid three feet of distance to separate them; standing in the corner with his suitcase between them, like a barrier. Seth pretends to check something on his phone even though the elevator gets no reception. He steals a glance at Dean, who’s got his arms crossed firmly over his chest, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors. His bare arms are shiny and wet, and his tee shirt is clinging to his stomach, to his collarbone. His jeans are soaked. There’s a taut, sharp energy radiating from Dean’s body, like he’s having trouble keeping still.  
  
The elevator stops between floors, but whoever pushed the button isn’t waiting anymore. Dean cracks his knuckles as the doors slide shut; bones popping loudly in the quiet.  
  
Dean is...nervous? Excited? _Holy shit._ Seth has never understood how selectively Dean can control his animal magnetism; how he can be so powerfully charismatic when he wants to be, but turn himself to stone like flicking a switch. He’s watched Dean take bumps that _hurt_ that he just shrugged off, and seen him wrestle through jet lag and hangovers and a horrible stomach flu without so much as a misplaced grimace. The idea that whatever Dean is feeling is because of _him_ , and that Dean either can’t, or _doesn’t_ _want_ _to_ try to hide it, makes Seth’s skin feel hot all over under his cold, wet clothes.

It feels like it takes an eternity for the doors to open when they finally reach the fourth floor, but they are blissfully alone in the hallway when they do. The wet wheels of Seth's suitcase squeak on the carpet as he pulls it behind him.

The room is clean and unexceptional, apart from the single king sized bed in the middle of it.

Dean throws his bags down near the door, kicks off his wet shoes, digs for something in his backpack, and walks right past Seth to the bathroom, where he proceeds to brush his teeth.  
There are a lot of things about Dean that reflect the uncivilized conditions of his life before Seth knew him and it’s weirdly endearing that he wants to have fresh breath.  
Because. There is definitely going to be kissing.  
Seth swallows hard at the thought.  
Seth takes his sneakers off digs his toes into the carpet, trying to figure out if it’s more, or _less_ romantic if he grabs his toothbrush and follows suit. He pictured this being rushed and spontaneous like the first time, but it sort of can’t be, because they're _here_ now, and they’ve already talked about it.

Dean spits into the sink and rinses out his mouth with water, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He walks out of the bathroom and past Seth, grinning slyly.  
“Gonna just stand there?” Dean asks. There’s something playful in the set of his eyes, but the rest of his face is closed off.

“No,” Seth says, and he grabs his toiletry bag from the top pocket of his backpack, and skulks into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He watches himself in the mirror while he does it. He’s nervous. His sweatshirt is heavy with water that’s soaking through into the edges of his tee shirt, and his jeans are sticking to his hips uncomfortably. He takes his hoodie off, and, after a moment of hesitation, peels his shirt off too. He hangs them both over the towel rack on the back of the door.  
When Seth re-emerges, Deans is leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, like he’s holding himself in.

Seth rests his hands on his hips. For a long, tense moment, they do nothing but stare at each other, with Dean’s eyes sweeping slowly over Seth’s torso.

Dean saunters toward him cautiously, and curls a curious hand over Seth’s bicep. He brushes his thumb up and down real slow, eliciting a hot, shivery bolt of pleasure up the side of Seth’s arm. There’s only a few inches left between them, and Dean’s eyes are so _warm_ , like Seth’s dream from months ago.  
  
“Do you still wanna?" Dean asks softly, and the roughness of his voice sends a frisson of heat over Seth’s bare shoulders.  
Their best communication has always been without words, and Seth lifts his hand up to the back of Dean’s neck, running his thumb up through the fine hairs there; wading curiously into the strangeness of being _allowed_ . Dean breathes out what might be a sigh, but he keeps still. His breath is warm, and he’s been waiting for _so long_ , and Seth is relieved to exit the safety of his reverie so he can drag Dean toward him and crush their mouths together.

Dean kisses back like he needs it too badly to do anything else. Their tongues brush together, and Seth shudders, feeling Dean’s big, warm hands on his hips, pulling their bodies closer. Dean tastes like mint toothpaste and smells like rain, and his hair is damp when Seth works his fingers up into it.  
There’s a wet, intimate sound when they separate, breathing heavily. Dean’s mouth is red from kissing and he grins, nudging Seth back, guiding Seth’s hips with his hands, until Seth’s bare shoulders meet the cold, solid wall behind him. They don’t last longer than a breath or two apart before they crash back together, teeth knocking in their fervor. Dean wraps a big, solid arm around the back of Seth’s neck, and Seth mauls Dean’s shoulders through his tee shirt, and it should be gross and juvenile, but it’s just really fucking hot.

It feels like they’re drowning in each other; all the heat and physical tension held captive between them like lightning in a jar. They’re both hard, and every time their erections brush together through their jeans Seth feels like he’s going to go crazy. He works his hands under Dean’s damp tee shirt, running his palms over Dean’s ribs. Dean eases back a bit with quick, gentle kisses, working some space between them so he can pull his shirt off, dropping it on the floor. Seth would thank him if thanking him weren’t the freakiest thing he could possibly do.  
  
Seth, transfixed, dips fingers into the ridges of Dean’s collarbone, and runs flat palms down over Dean’s chest, lost in how good and how _right_ it feels to explore Dean’s body. He strokes appreciatively down over Dean’s stomach with attentive, curious hands, and revels in the feeling of his cool skin, struck by how bizarre it is that this is the first time he’s been allowed to actually _touch_ Dean this way. Dean’s breath hitches into funny little sighs, and Seth feels those big, hot hands on his ass, squeezing, which sends a chain of sparks running up his spine.  
“Bed,” Seth gasps, pressing his forehead into the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean’s answering chuckle is a low, rich sound that’s almost too sexy to be real.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, and he takes Seth by the hand and leads them there. It’s a dizzying loss of heat to have so much space between their bodies again. The hand holding makes Seth feel a little awkward, like somebody’s prom date, right up until Dean gives him a playful shove, nudging Seth so he falls back onto the vast white expanse of the bed. Seth slides back to get closer to the pillows, but he stops, coming up on his elbows to witness the remarkable sight of Dean, kneeling on the bedspread, crawling sinuously up the length of Seth’s body until they’re face to face again. Seth throws a leg up over Dean’s hip, and runs a hand slowly up Dean’s arm. Dean’s eyes are hot and darkly sweet, and Seth can feel that he’s still holding something back, but then Dean shifts his hips down to align with Seth’s again, and that pressure is _so good._ Dean’s breath is hot on his face and Seth pulls Dean in to kiss him again.  
  
Dean hums pleasantly against Seth’s mouth and grinds their hips together, which makes Seth gasp, because it’s so spine-meltingly hot. Dean does it again, and again, and they find a good rhythm instantly. It's _so_ good that Seth moans and Dean backs the pressure off, sliding his thigh between Seth’s legs and shifting the position of his hips to give their erections some relief from one another; assuming control for the both of them like it’s as easy as applying a headlock. There’s something primal and purposeful about this, about the full weight of Dean’s body on his; about the way they fit together. Maybe all the wrestling was just marking time until they found their way to this, Seth thinks. Seth _wants_ , he wants _so much_ , and it’s overwhelming, and he’s making these short, urgent sounds, whining into Dean’s mouth for more when Dean shifts the angle up, careful not to lose their lower body contact, so he has room to tilt Seth’s head with his hand, exposing the neck, bringing his mouth to Seth’s throat.  
  
Dean licks a slow path over the side of Seth’s neck with his big hot tongue, and it sends a shot of arousal straight through the center of Seth that makes Seth buck his hips desperately.  
“Dean. Wait,” Seth gasps. He doesn’t _want_ Dean to do anything of the sort, but he doesn’t want to come before he’s even gotten all their clothes off.  
Dean lets up, shifting up on his elbows so he can meet Seth’s eyes with some space between them.  
“Not-” Seth says, and he has to sweep his hand back through his hair, has to grip the bedspread before he can continue, “Slow down. Not yet, not like this.”

He trails his hand down Dean’s naked back to the waistband of his jeans, and dips his fingers under it. He can feel the elastic band of Dean’s boxers.  
Dean nods, dipping his head down to Seth’s chest as he leans back, pressing a kiss to his sternum.  
They’ve stripped in the same locker room thousands of times, but this is different. Seth slides himself back up against the pillows and watches, captivated by how fluidly Dean can shuck his jeans and boxers off, without a hint of self consciousness or hesitation. Dean leaves his jeans in a pile on the edge of the bed and sits back on his knees, the corner of his mouth upturned ever so slightly as he watches Seth stare at him.  
And. Well. Dean is.  
  
Dean is really sexy. Seth can admit that. Dean’s body is all long, clean lines of rounded, sinuous muscle that Seth wants to memorize the feeling of, wants to know as intimately as possible. He wants to press his hands against the small of Dean’s back, and he wants to run his hands up and down over that impossibly tapered waist, and he wants to count the little scars that he’s known for years are on Dean’s hips but has never had a chance to touch. Dean’s cock is thick and mouthwatering and full, and looking at it makes Seth want things that he doesn’t know how to name. He’s undoing his own button fly before he can think about it, and he stands up off the bed to strip himself out of his damp skinny jeans, out of his boxers, nervous and eager to be naked, to be touched. He rejoins Dean on the bed, and Dean crawls towards him, sprawling out next to him so they’re at eye level. There’s a damp patch on the comforter from the wet fabric of their jeans, but the bed is big enough that they’re both able to avoid it.  
  
“This is new for you,” Dean says, and it’s technically a question, but it’s not, really - because _of course_ Dean can read Seth’s body language better than anyone.  
Considering the ways in which this _isn’t_ new sends a cold, stifling pang to Seth’s gut.  
“Kinda,” Seth says, and it comes out tighter than he wants it to, “Why,” he says, “Is that a problem?”  
Dean lifts Seth’s hand off the bed, bringing it to his mouth. He kisses Seth’s wrist quickly, like he wants to do it more, but is forcing himself to behave.  
“Nope,” Dean says automatically, “But you gotta let me know what’s good for you.”  
Seth swallows. His throat feels like it’s stuck.  
  
Dean smiles at him slow, and there’s so much desire behind it that it makes Seth need to brush his fingers over his own stomach to supplement the insufficient amount of contact between them. On cue, Dean leans down and kisses Seth’s shoulder, and begins a careful, teasing descent across his clavicle, sending little hot sparks in his wake.  
“Anything you really _don’t_ wanna do?” Dean asks. Seth’s legs are far enough apart that Dean can get his knee between them, and he shifts, hovering over Seth, butterfly kissing his way down Seth’s chest.  
Seth breathes out slow. It’s hard for him to think when he’s this turned on.  
  
“I just wanna _see_ you,” he says, and it comes out more pleading than it should, but Dean looks up, restoring their eye contact. Seth slips a hand into Dean’s hair, and runs it down to cup the side of Dean’s face through his pleasantly scratchy stubble. Seth doesn’t know how to say what he needs any better than that, so he presses his thumb against the side of Dean’s mouth, hoping Dean will understand. He takes his own aching cock in his free hand, and strokes lightly.  
Dean licks his lips, eyes bright with arousal and intent.  
“Okay,” Dean says, “You wanna watch. A man can work with that.”  
  
Dean shifts back onto his knees. His face is too far away for Seth to touch now, and as if on cue, he fills Seth’s empty hand with his own, twining their fingers together.  
Dean pauses for a moment, and Seth can see the gears churning in his head.  
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do,” Dean says, “but I really wanna finger fuck you. Is that cool?”  
Seth sucks in a breath.  
He’s never had anyone offer to do that for him before.  
The thought of it washes over him; sexy and strange all at once.  
He looks Dean in the eyes.  
He trusts Dean. He’s trusted Dean with his life many times.  
“Yeah,” Seth says, and his voice feels a little flat for no apparent reason, “Sounds good.”  
  
Dean nods. He gestures to the pillows against the headboard, “Cool. Put your head up on those. Get comfortable.”  
Seth slides back up, propping his neck up on the pillows, doing what he’s told. Dean grabs his discarded jeans from the corner of his bed, and fishes something out of the back pocket; a tiny, clear bottle that Seth realizes is lube.  
“Where did you get that?” Seth asks, because Dean definitely didn’t have time to run to the hotel gift shop or a CVS. Which means.  
Dean had it in his bag.  
He took it out of his bag when they got to the hotel room, and hid it in his pocket.  
Dean gently nudges Seth’s legs further apart so he can sit cross legged between them.  
  
“Lift your hips for me,” Dean says, and Seth does. Dean spreads Seth’s legs over either side of his lap, nudging forward until he gets Seth’s knees bent over his hips. Seth’s ass is resting across Dean’s folded legs, and Seth brings his hand to Dean’s knee instinctively, searching for reassurance that he did it right, that this is okay. Lying back on the pillows in an incline like this is a little strange, but when Dean squirts a few drops of lube into his hand, rubbing it to warm it up, Seth is already glad he can see everything Dean’s doing.  
The first brush of Dean’s finger over his hole is a strange sensation; bright and hot, not unlike the feeling of stroking his cock. Dean’s thumb joins his index finger, stroking in small, careful circles around the opening. It feels wet, and messy, but it also feels good.  
“You’re tense,” Dean says, and his free hand slides up Seth’s side, all the way up to his chest. He cups Seth’s pec, brushing over it slowly using the same rhythm as his hand, sending slow, electric vibrations down to Seth’s stomach. Dean’s expression is warm and relaxed, but his eyes are all intense and half lidded.  
  
Seth forces himself to exhale. He has no idea how he’s hung on this long without coming.  
“Please,” Seth says, “Dean, I need-” he needs something to happen, needs the suspense to end, needs Dean to touch him more, or tell him to touch himself.  
But all Dean says is, “Breathe in.”  
And then Dean slips a finger inside him, slow and deliberate as anything, and wow, he’s never felt anything like that before. It doesn’t hurt; it’s like a strange fullness he isn’t used to. He watches, and he can’t see Dean’s hand, but Dean’s face is so fascinating; reverent with concentration, as he works his finger out and then back in. It’s like a hot, pleasurable burn, blooming up from below his spine, not so different from being fucked. Seth has to pinch the top of his dick to keep himself from coming, and he grips Dean’s elbow to anchor himself in the present.  
  
“You’re hot in there,” Dean says, and there’s a beautiful roughness to his voice that Seth could listen to forever, “Tight, too.”  
Dean’s using two fingers now; Seth can feel them bending slightly, working their way inside, and Seth has to choke out a little gasp, because Dean’s strokes are getting faster, building more inertia. Seth has to fight to keep his hips still, and it’s like weight training, because the resistance somehow makes it better.  
Dean strokes his free hand down over Seth’s abs, dragging fingertips through the sheath in the center like it’s some place he’s always wanted to go. It’s as exciting as it is soothing, because Seth knows Dean’s going to get to his dick eventually, which is sticking straight up, hard as a rock, leaking shiny precome straight down from the tip.  
“Holy fuck,” Seth says, because Dean gets three fingers inside him, searching, brushing towards something Seth can’t name, and the _pain,_ the pain and the pleasure together are exquisite, rushing up through him in a way that forces Seth to flex his stomach and gasp, straining to lean into Dean’s touch.  
“Dean, fuck, I can’t-”  
  
It’s not enough contact, and he wants to last, he wants to last _so badly,_ but he’s going to die. He’s going to burn up like this, with these hot, heavy sensations radiating up through his body, cracking him open, making him beg for it.  
Dean’s free hand is gone for a moment, and at first Seth wants to panic, but it turns out he’s just reaching for the lube, flipping the cap open with his thumb. Dean takes the bottle in his mouth so he can drizzle it down, catching it in his hand, the other hand still stroking his fingers in and out of Seth like it’s his mission to make Seth lose his fucking mind.  
The first touch of cold lube against his dick is a little like being slapped, but then Dean’s fist is tight and solid around the base of it, working Seth up and down in long, slow, comforting strokes.  
“Do it for me,” Dean says, in this sweet, potent way that Seth’s never heard before, “Come on beautiful, do it, I know you’re close, do it for me.”  
  
Seth groans, panting heavily, and he almost can’t feel the fullness of Dean’s fingers anymore with Dean’s hand on his dick, until Dean turns his wrist, crooking his fingers at another angle, and Seth’s vision whites out from pleasure. The orgasm hits him in two long, hot waves, shaking him, ringing down into his kneecaps. Seth's stomach clenches, and he bucks up from his shoulders like he’s splitting apart, locking his ankles, arching as far as his body will let him. He comes, screaming, all over Dean’s hand.  
When he comes to, Dean’s still working Seth’s dick in slow, loose strokes, with Seth’s white cum all over his fingers, breathing hotly, a line of sweat gleaming on his brow.  
“Fuck,” Seth gasps, “Fuck, that was _so good_ ,” and he doesn’t know when Dean took his fingers out of his ass, but it’s like he can still feel them in there, like the first day after a tattoo when everything still stings. He sort of hopes that never goes away.  
  
Dean licks the cum off his hand and smirks at him; a gorgeous mix of gratefulness and “I told you so”, and that’s when it twists through Seth like a delicious, dangerous thing, that Dean hasn’t come yet himself yet. There’s still work to be done.  
  
He’s still got his legs over Dean’s hips, and he sits up, shifting forward, resting his ass in the valley of Dean’s crossed legs, pulling their bodies together. Sliding into Dean’s lap might be the strangest, most intimate thing he’s ever done, and he sort of can’t believe he’s done it, but there’s room enough for him to touch Dean, and to look down into Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes are so hot with want, and he’s so beautiful, and Seth can see the effort that it’s taking for Dean to keep himself together, and he wants to reward Dean as much as possible; wants to give him everything he needs until neither of them can take more, the same way he does when they wrestle.  
  
“I wanna use this,” Seth says, reaching for the bottle of lube on the bedspread. He holds it up in the space between them, dangling the bottle from his fingers by the cap. “I wanna get you off.”  
Dean closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh. Seth knows it isn’t bad; it’s the same face Dean made backstage when he won the US title; like he’s steeling himself for this thing, because it’s something good, something he might not ever get again.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, and he takes the bottle from Seth, flipping open the cap. Seth catches the stream of clear, shiny liquid in his cupped hands, like he’s preparing to drink from a tiny waterfall.  
Dean’s dick is heavy and warm, and surprisingly soft in this way that Seth can’t describe, and getting his hand around it feels awesome and right, and not nerve wracking at all. Dean’s got his arms wrapped around Seth’s back, anchoring himself on Seth’s shoulder blades, and Seth has to hook his arm over Dean’s elbow to reach, resting his free hand on the small of Dean’s back. Seth works his hand down in loose, circular strokes, pressing the pads of his fingers in. He wants to make Dean feel the hot, shivery way Dean made him feel just now, and the way Dean made him feel the first time they hooked up.  
  
He could watch Dean’s face forever, and he’s not expecting Dean to kiss him, angling in delightedly as he strokes his hands up and down over Seth’s back. Seth matches the pace of Dean’s strokes with his hand, but tightens his grip, losing himself in the sweet, slippery feeling of it as he simultaneously works his tongue into Dean’s mouth. The kissing is surprisingly helpful, because everything he does to Dean’s dick that feels really good gets him a sweet, breathy reaction that he can feel right against his mouth; an unmistakable signal, like Dean’s giving him the answer key.  
  
They part for breath, and Seth leans back a little to glance down, watching himself jerk Dean off, tight and slow and slick. Dean’s chest is shining with a thin layer of sweat, and Dean has his eyes closed, panting gently, like he’s relishing in letting himself have this, this moment where his composure doesn’t have to be perfect, because he knows Seth’s got him.  
And Seth’s dick is still oversensitive, and he’s not gonna be hard again for awhile, but he can’t resist arching his hips forward to press it together with Dean’s, taking both in his hand, using the extra lube to make it hotter and slicker for Dean, using the tiniest hint of his nail on the underside of Dean’s dick. Dean's spine goes taut, and he opens his eyes halfway, panting, and bites Seth’s collarbone like he needs to do it to keep from shouting.  
“Fuck,” Seth gasps, “Come on,” and he doesn’t say _I’ve waited, we’ve waited for this, we deserve it, I need you, you deserve it,_ because his throat is too hot and tight suddenly, but Dean shakes underneath him and against him and groans into Seth’s shoulder as he finally comes, shamelessly, all over Seth’s hand.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean says, and he lets Seth go to lean back, his head nearly touching the edge of the bed. His long, beautiful body is glistening with sweat, and his dick is still shiny with lube, and Seth stays on top of him, straddling his lap, just so he can stare, because holy fucking shit.  
“Damn,” Seth says when he can speak, and there’s a cheerfulness to his voice that is entirely artificial, because he doesn’t know what to do with the loose, warm feeling swelling up inside his chest.  
He’s not sure what to do now. He’s been dreaming about this for months, but it’s so different from what he expected, except for the part where Dean is totally spectacular in bed. Seth’s had to overcome a lot to get himself here, to get Dean to do this with him, but at the same time it almost feels like he’s never had such an easy time getting this close to someone, and he _doesn’t even normally have sex with men_ .  
  
There’s a long moment where the only sound in the room is the lapping of the rain outside, like a white noise that’s faded back into focus.  
Then Dean says, “Come ‘ere,” and Seth does, hovering up on his hands as he crawls over to to bring them back into alignment with one another. They’re both naked and sweaty and sticky, but he lets himself be pulled down on top of Dean, with his head on Dean’s chest, and Dean strokes a hand down over Seth’s shoulders, over the tattoo on his spine, and over the curve of Seth’s hip. It’s terrifyingly easy to just lay there bonelessly, leaning into Dean’s touch, listening to their breathing and the far off crackling of thunder outside until they both fall asleep.


End file.
